293C 


0£  CALIF.  LIBRARY,  LOS  AJTCILES 

MAX    HEREFORD'S    DREAM 


DERRICK  VAUGHAN,  NOVELIST 


THE  AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  A  SLANDER 


BY 

EDNA  LYALL 

.'.rTHOR.   OF 
DONOVAN,'1  "  WE  TWO,1'    "  KNIGHT   ERRANT,"  ETC 


NEW   YORK 
LOVELL,  CORYELL  &  COMPANY, 

43,   43   AXD   47    FAST  TKNTII   STREET. 


COPYRIGHT,  1891,  BV 
UNITED  STATES  BOOK  COMPANY 

All  rights  reserved 


BARR-OiNWiooie  PRINTING  i  BOOK-BINDING  Co., 

GRtENVILLe,  JERSEY  CIT»,  H.  J. 


WITH  LOVE 

TO 

M.    S.    C. 

How  many  unknown  worlds  there  are 

Of  comforts,  which  Thou  hast  in  keeping  ! 
How  many  thousand  mercies  there 

In  pity's  soft  lap  lie  a-sleeping  ! 
Happy  he  who  has  the  art 
To  awake  them 
And  to  take  them 
Home,  and  lodge  them  in  his  heart  ! 

RICHARD  CRASHAW. 


2136909 


NOTE. 

[This  sketch  was  suggested  by  the  late  Dean  Plump- 
ire's  book,  "The  Spirits  in  Prison,"  and  by  an  article 
in  the  Spectator,  June  5,  1884,  referring  to  Mr.  Mac- 
Colts  paper  in  the  Fortnightly  Review  on  the  late 
Princess  Alice.] 


MAX  HEREFORD'S  DREAM. 


"  HE  is  wonderfully  patient,"  said  the  doctor 
to  the  sick-nurse,  as  she  followed  him  to  the 
head  of  the  stairs. 

"  I  never  saw  any  one  more  patient." 

The  door  was  ajar,  and  the  sick  man  heard 
the  words.  If  he  had  had  a  wife  sitting1  there 
beside  him,  he  would  have  turned  toward  her 
with  a  glance  half  humorous,  half  pathetic.  As 
he  had  no  wife,  his  eyes  remained  sad,  but  the 
ghost  of  a  smile  flickered  about  his  pale  lips. 
There  was  enough  truth  in  the  words  to  make 
them  praise  and  not  flattery,  and  there  was  the 
inevitable  personal  pronoun  which  makes  all 
praise,  if  rightly  understood,  tend  to  produce 
humility. 

To  the  doctor  he  seemed  patient ;  yet,  though 
he  knew  that  in  truth  some  patience  had  been 
given  to  him  during  the  long  months  of  his 
illness,  he  knew  too  well  that  the  actual  Max 
Hereford  was  far  from  his  own  ideal  of  what  a 


<3  MAX  HEREFORD'S  DREAM. 

man  should  be,  and  that  under  a  mask  of  pas- 
sive quiet  there  raged  too  often  a  consuming 
impatience — under  an  assumed  hopefulness  a 
real  despair. 

Orator  and  philanthropist,  he  had  suddenly 
been  struck  down  in  the  noontide  of  life,  and 
from  the  glad  enthusiasm  of  successful  work 
had  been  all  at  once  relegated  to  the  enforced 
quiet  of  the  sick-room. 

"You  will  gain  much  from  such  an  experi- 
ence," said  his  friends.  "You  will  be  better 
able  to  teach ;  it  will  foster  the  growth  of  your 
inner  life." 

He  wondered  if  they  knew;  hoped  there 
might  be  truth  in  that  thought  of  the  after- 
harvest  of  righteousness,  but  knew  that  at  pres- 
ent he  longed  to  swear  if  the  maid  knocked 
over  the  fire-irons,  and  to  anathematize  the 
cook  if  there  was  too  much  salt  in  the  broth. 

His  foes,  on  the  other  hand,  rejoiced  in  his 
discomfiture. 

"  It  is  exactly  what  you  deserve,"  wrote  anony- 
mous malignity.  "Your  ill-advised  speeches 
are  checked,  your  schemes  of  reform  brought 
to  naught,  ana  we  rejoice  mat  your  mischievous 
voice  is  silenced.  May  heaven  bring  you  to  a 
better  frame  of  mind ! " 


MAX  HEREFORD'S  DREAM.  7 

And  so,  with  variations  on  these  two  themes, 
the  long  days  and  weeks  and  months  passed 
by,  and  Max,  unable  to  move  hand  or  foot,  lived 
on  and  wondered  why  he  lived. 

His  neighbors  were  kind  to  him — unweary- 
ingly  kind.  People  who  knew  what  illness  was 
sent  him  an  endless  succession  of  flowers  and 
tempting  delicacies.  People  who  had  never 
been  ill  themselves  sent  him  religious  books. 
The  flowers  he  enjoyed ;  the  food  he  obedient- 
ly swallowed;  the  religious  books  found  their 
way  into  his  book-case — where  they  remained. 
Printed  religious  sentiments  seldom  comfort 
the  sick,  who  want  something  more  practical : 
the  sympathy  of  loving  human  hearts,  and  trust 
in  the  Unchangeable. 

The  night  was  approaching.  All  the  tedious 
ceremonies  had  been  gone  through.  As  usual 
Max  had  made  the  little  jests  which  did  what 
could  be  done  to  relieve  the  monotony;  for 
nurses  and  patients  are  bound  to  laugh,  if  they 
would  not  fall  into  a  grim,  apathetic  gloom. 
As  usual,  he  had  envied  Job  for  having  died 
before  the  invention  of  the  clinical  thermom- 
eter, and  sighed  as  the  disappointing  figures 
were  recorded,  and  smiled  at  the  nurse's  story 
of  the  old  patient  who  insisted  on  being  fed 


8  MAX  HEREFORD'S  DREAM. 

with  a  tablespoon,  and  wondered  what  it  would 
feel  like  to  be  a  free  agent  once  more,  and 
longed  for  just  five  minutes  of  health  and  ac- 
tivity. 

At  length  the  unwelcome  night  really  arrived, 
the  room  was  darkened,  and  save  for  the  ticking 
of  the  clock  and  the  breathing  of  the  sick-nurse, 
faintly  audible  through  the  open  door  of  the 
dressing-room,  all  was  still  around  him,  and  all 
within  him  full  of  unrest,  as  he  lay  in  the  mis- 
ery of  that  first  watch,  when  the  refrain  of  "  All 
the  night  is  now  before  us"  chants  itself  in 
dirge-like  notes,  instead  of  in  a  chorus  of  cheer- 
ful voices. 

"  You  will  learn  so  much,"  his  friends  said. 

"Learn!"  he  echoed,  impatiently;  "why,  I 
can't  even  think  to  any  purpose.  I  am  a  mere 
useless  log." 

"With  extraordinary  slowness  the  clocks  of  the 
quiet  city  chimed  the  hours;  still  sleep  held 
aloof,  and  he  seemed  to  live  in  a  lake  of  fire 
whose  never-ceasing  waves  surged  relentlessly 
over  him.  The  sick-nurse  brought  him  food. 

"  You  have  not  slept  yet  1 "  she  said.  "  Try 
to  lie  still  and  say  your  prayers — that  often 
puts  people  to  sleep ;  you  just  try." 

He  was  secretly  amused,  and  had  little  faith 


MAX  HEREFORD'S  DREAM.  9 

in  his  capacity  at  that  time  for  any  sort  of  form 
or  ceremony.  He  fell  into  a  confused  train 
of  thought  as  to  what  the  generality  of  people 
meant  by  "  saying1  their  prayers."  Then,  after 
a  long,  weary  interval  he  found  that  the  night- 
light  was  burning  with  a  feeble  blue  flame,  and 
speculated  as  to  why  in  every  boxful  there 
should  always  be  one  with  too  short  a  wick, 
destined  to  bum  with  a  faint  and  depressing 
light — recollected  certain  superstitions  as  to 
blue  flames,  and  repeated  Herrick's  lines : 

When  the  tapers  now  burn  blue, 
And  the  comforters  are  few, 
And  that  number  more  than  true, 

Sweet  Spirit  comfort  me  ! 

From  this  he  passed  to  thoughts  of  death  and 
the  unseen,  and  to  the  old,  doggerel  lines  of  his 
childhood  about — 

Four  corners  to  my  bed, 
Four  angels  round  my  head, 
One  to  watch,  two  to  pray, 
And  one  to  bear  my  soul  away. 

His  old,  childish  perplexity  came  back  to  him. 
"  Why  two  to  pray  ?  "VVhy  on  earth  should 


10  MAX  HEREFORD'S  DREAV. 

there  be  two  to  pray  ? "    Over  and  over  in  his 
brain  rang  the  quaint  old  rhyme : 

One  to  watch,  two  to  pray, 
And  one  to  bear  my  soul  away, 

till  the  familiar  words  brought  at  last  the  long- 
desired  sleep ;  and  while  he  slept  he  dreamed. 

The  faint,  blue  flame  of  the  night-light  gave 
place  to  a  mellow,  restful  light,  which  suffused 
the  room.  Max  hated  darkness  and  dimness — 
it  was  alwa37s  full  of  excitement  and  unrest  to 
him ;  but  this  perfect  light  gave  him  the  same 
keen  sense  of  happiness  as  the  breathing  of  the 
first  breath  of  warm,  health-giving  southern  air 
gives  to  one  who  flies  from  the  severity  of  a 
northern  spring.  After  a  time,  revealed  by 
this  perfect  light,  the  meaning  of  which  he 
began  to  apprehend,  he  found  to  his  surprise 
that  the  four  angels  of  the  rhyme  really  were 
about  his  bed.  We  most  of  us  profess  a  belief 
in  ministering  spirits  sent  forth  to  minister, 
and  orthodox  people  sing,  every  eighteenth 
day  of  the  month,  of  the  angels  who  are  given 
charge  over  them  to  keep  them  in  all  their 
ways ;  yet,  perhaps,  very  few  of  us  in  the  least 


MAX  HEREFORD'S  DREAM.  11 

realize  their  presence.  Max  was  astonished,  in- 
terested, a  little  awed.  His  first  natural  im- 
pulse was  to  look  up  behind  him  and  investi- 
gate the  two  standing  figures,  who  were  not  so 
easily  discernible ;  his  innate  love  of  proof  and 
certainty,  his  shrinking-  from  all  that  was  dim 
and  veiled,  drew  him  toward  these  two.  At  his 
right  stood  the  guardian  angel,  with  a  face  and 
bearing  which  spoke  of  invincible  strength  and 
alert  watchfulness.  He  turned  eagerly  to  the 
left,  hoping  to  read  something  of  his  fate  in  the 
face  of  the  death  angel.  But  the  face  revealed 
nothing  but  gentle  patience :  whether  the  wait- 
ing were  to  be  for  a  few  days  or  for  many  years 
was  all  one  to  this  still  messenger,  who  kept 
watch  like  a  servant  awaiting  orders  from  one 
in  authorit3r,  not  in  the  least  knowing  at  what 
hour  the  orders  might  be  received. 

With  a  sigh  Max  turned  his  eyes  to  the  two 
kneeling  angels  at  the  foot  of  the  bed.  "  Why 
two  to  pray  ? "  he  thought  to  himself,  and  then 
with  a  shock  of  surprise  he  perceived  that  they 
had  heard  his  thought,  for  they  looked  up  at 
him  in  prompt  reply. 

"  I  pray  for  you  and  for  those  whom  you  have 
influenced  who  are  still  on  this  earth,"  said  the 
angel  on  the  right,  glancing  up  with  eyes 


12  MAX  HEREFORD'S  DREAM. 

which  made  him  think  of  blue  speedwell-blos- 
soms bathed  in  sunshine. 

The  eyes  of  the  last  angel  were  deeper,  and 
seemed  to  bear  in  them  the  sorrows  of  other 
hearts.  They  made  him  think  of  pale  violets 
drenched  in  dew. 

"  I  pray  for  you  and  for  those  influenced  by 
you  who  have  passed  away  from  this  earth/' 
was  the  reply  to  his  thought. 

"  Can  prayer  for  these  avail  ? "  he  asked. 

"  All  prayer  avails ;  wherefore  not  this  ? " 

"  But  the  dead  are  in  God's  keeping ;  is  not 
that  enough  ? " 

"Here  also  all  are  in  his  keeping,  yet  are 
you  bidden  to  pray  without  ceasing.  But  few 
keep  the  command.  Then  they  weep  and  la- 
ment that  they  cannot  realize  spiritual  things. 
They  have  lost  touch  and  cannot  understand 
why  all  at  once  they  are  powerless  to  regain 
it." 

"Yet  how  can  prayer  affect  those  so  far  re- 
moved from  here  ? "  mused  Max. 

"Far  and  near  are  but  words  belonging  to 
this  earth,"  replied  the  angel.  "How  prayer 
affects  another  soul  you  cannot  now  under- 
stand; yet  that  the  soul  is  affected  while  in 
this  world  even  by  any  earnest  thought  you  do 


MAX  HEREFORD'S  DREA.V.  13 

not  doubt.  Why  then  question  that  this  is  pos- 
sible after  death  ?  " 

"  The  idea  is  new  to  me,  and  prayers  for  the 
departed  once  led  to  such  abuse  and  supersti- 
tion, such  spiritual  bargain-driving,  that  one 
shrinks  from  the  possible  danger  of  returning 
to  the  old  practice." 

"  All  good  things  have  been  abused,"  said  the 
angel,  "  and  the  lack  of  the  right  use  of  prayers 
for  the  dead  brings  much  sorrow  and  works 
great  harm.  Conic  with  us  and  see." 

Then,  to  his  unspeakable  delight,  Max,  who 
had  looked  for  months  only  on  the  four  walls  of 
his  room,  and  had  panted  for  the  fresh,  free 
winds,  and  the  restful  sense  of  infinite  space, 
found  himself  borne  out  into  the  still,  peaceful 
night.  Instead  of  the  skulls  and  cross-bones 
which,  with  a  sick  man's  fancy,  he  had  grown 
into  the  habit  of  tracing  in  the  well-known  pat- 
tern of  his  carpet,  he  saw  beneath  him  dimly- 
lighted  towns,  fields,  trees,  rivers,  and  hills 
bathed  in  moonlight.  Instead  of  the  blank 
white  ceiling,  there  was  stretched  above  him 
the  dark-blue  vault  of  heaven  with  its  countless 
stars. 

Not  without  a  feeling  of  regret,  he  found 
himself  taken  from  this  calm  outer  world  into 


14:  MAX  HEREFORD'S  DREAM. 

a  large  country  house — a  house  upon  which  the 
sad  hush  of  death  rested. 

Two  days  before  the  lifeless  form  of  the 
master  had  been  carried  across  the  threshold. 
Killed  in  the  hunting-field,  cut  off  suddenly 
in  the  midst  of  a  life  of  self-indulgence  and 
vice,  he  had  left  behind  him  one  woman  who, 
in  spite  of  his  faithlessness,  had  remained 
faithful  to  him,  and  who  grieved  for  him  now 
with  the  saddest  of  all  griefs.  Max  could  see 
that  round  her  sleepless  bed  there  were  also 
four  angels,  and  her  sorrow  seemed  to  be  re- 
flected in  their  faces. 

"  All  her  life  she  has  prayed  for  her  husband, 
and  loved  and  served  him;  now  she  is  heart- 
broken because  she  thinks  it  has  all  been  in 
vain,  and  that  she  can  do  nothing  more  for 
him,"  said  one  of  the  angels. 

"  Oh,  the  sadness  of  it ! "  said  another.  "  If 
she  could  but  see  that  love,  being  eternal,  must 
eternally  serve!  If  she  could  but  realize  that 
there  is  work  which  she  is  leaving  undone ! 
Then  hope  and  strength  would  spring  up  in 
her  heart,  which  is  now  crushed  and  likely  to 
sink  into  the  apathy  of  fruitless  sorrow." 

The  watching  angel  looked  sorrowfully  down 
at  the  stricken  woman. 


MAX  HEREFORD'S  DREAM.  15 

"  It  will  not  be,"  he  said.  "  Custom  is  too 
strong,  and  what  in  the  past  was  a  natural 
resource  for  all  sad  souls  has  in  these  days 
fallen  into  neglect.  The  remedy  is  here,  but 
she  will  doubt  if  it  be  a  true  remedy,  and  so 
reject  it." 

Max,  looking  at  the  hopeless  sorrow  and  bit- 
ter tears  of  the  widow,  felt  his  own  eyes  grow 
dim.  "  That  she  should  miss  her  comfort  when 
it  is  so  ready  to  hand,  so  clear,  so  plain ! "  he 
cried,  forgetting  his  previous  doubt  and  the  old 
abuses  that  had  crept  in  and  blinded  men's  eyes 
to  the  truth. 

The  angels  smiled  sadly  at  his  exclamation 
and  once  more  bore  him  away  into  the  outer 
air.  Far  away  they  flew  over  land  and  sea  un- 
til, at  the  other  side  of  the  Atlantic,  they  came 
to  a  great  city,  where  in  a  lofty  window  there 
burned  the  lamp  of  a  solitary  student. 

The  room  was  lined  with  books — ponderous 
works  on  theology,  ecclesiastical  histories,  vol- 
umes of  sermons  old  and  new.  Toiling  hard  at 
the  writing-table,  with  books  and  papers  strewn 
round  him,  there  sat  a  middle-aged  man,  who 
looked  older  than  his  years  by  reason  of  the 
cares  that  had  thronged  his  life.  A  new  sor- 
row was  filling  his  heart  that  night.  The  friend 


16  MAX  HEREFORD'S  DREAM. 

for  whom  he  had  cared  most,  yet  had  least 
agreed  with,  had  passed  away  only  a  few  hours 
before,  had 

Died  and  made  no  sign. 

Without  hope  of  future  life,  without  faith  in 
God,  he  had  drawn  his  last  breath. 

Max  looked  from  the  sad  face  of  the  student 
to  the  angels,  who  here,  too,  were  in  charge. 
Here,  also,  one  of  them  prayed  for  the  living-, 
one  for  the  dead ;  and  the  latter  seemed  to  con- 
centrate his  thoughts  on  the  dead  friend  who 
had  just  passed  from  the  life  of  an  agnostic, 
zealously  combating  what  he  deemed  supersti- 
tion and  error,  into  that  unseen  world  the  very 
existence  of  which  had  seemed  to  him  a  mis- 
chievous delusion — a  vain  fancy. 

The  angel  prayed  that  his  sorrow  for  past 
misunderstandings  and  errors  might  be  com- 
forted ;  that  he  might  be  brought  to  the  knowl- 
edge of  God's  truth  and  to  faith  in  Him,  and 
that  at  length  all  humanity  might  hear  the 
voice  of  the  Constant  Shepherd  who  seeks  un- 
til He  finds,  and  become  one  flock  in  His  safe 
keeping. 

But  the  student  left  the  angel  to  pray  alone 
—nothing  could  allure  his  thoughts  into  that 


MAX  HEREFORD'S  DREAM.  17 

channel  of  comfort.  With  a  sad  heart  he  bent 
his  head  over  musty  old  volumes  and  tried  to 
forget  his  sorrow,  or,  when  it  thrust  itself  irre- 
sistibly upon  him,  to  stifle  it  with  the  saying-, 
"  Shall  not  the  Judge  of  all  the  earth  do 
right  ? " 

The  truest  of  truths,  however,  cannot  greatly 
comfort  us  when  we  neglect  a  corresponding 
truth ;  he  forgot  that  his  friendship  still  made 
claims  upon  him,  and  that  all  who  love  are 
workers  together  with  One  whose  "tender 
mercy  "  is  "  for  ever  and  ever." 

"  You  shall  see  now  how  it  should  be,"  said 
the  angels  to  Max.  "  You  have  seen  the  great 
loss  which  the  many  unwittingly  endure;  you 
shall  see  now  the  comfort  which  the  few  vouch- 
safe to  take." 

Once  more  they  crossed  the  great  ocean,  and 
just  as  dawn  was  breaking  they  came  to  a  cot- 
tage among  the  hills,  where,  in  a  tiny  room 
with  sloping  roof  and  bare  floor,  there  rested 
an  old,  white-haired  laborer.  The  aged  have 
short  hours  of  sleep,  and  this  old  man  had 
for  many  hours  lain  with  wide-open  eyes,  pray- 
ing for  those  whom  ho  loved,  as  was  his  habit 
when  sleep  forsook  him ;  for  the  son  and  grand- 
children out  in  Canada ;  for  the  daughter  who 


18  MAX  HEREFORD'S  DREAM. 

had  married  and  emigrated  to  Australia,  and 
was  doing  well,  as  he  loved  to  think ;  but  most 
of  all  for  the  scajjegrace  son  who  had  died 
many  years  before,  and  who,  notwithstanding1 
his  brutality  and  his  evil  ways,  had  still  a  place 
in  his  father's  heart. 

"  A  worthless  fellow  who  went  to  sea  and  fell 
overboard  one  night  when  drunk."  This  was 
the  world's  verdict. 

But  his  father  still  loved  him,  still  hoped, 
still  prayed,  never  troubling  his  head  as  to  ln>w 
the  prayers  might  help,  but  just  following  the 
natural  impulse  of  a  heart  full  of  loving  trust, 
and,  though  he  could  not  have  read  the  old 
book  of  prayers  published  centuries  ago  by 
William  Caxton,  his  longing  clothed  them- 
selves very  much  in  the  language  of  one  of 
these,  written  for  use  on  entering  a  church  or 
churchyard : 

"  Be  merciful,  O  Lord,  through  Thy  glorious 
resurrection  to  the  souls  of  all  the  faithful  de- 
parted; be  merciful  to  those  souls  who  have 
none  to  intercede  for  them,  for  whom  there  is 
no  consolation  or  hope  in  their  torment  save 
that  they  were  made  in  Thine  image.  Spare 
them,  O  Lord,  spare  them,  and  defend  Thy 
work  in  them,  and  give  not  the  honor  of  Thy 


MAX  HEREFORD'S  DREAM.  19 

name,  we  pray  Thee,  to  another.  Despise  not 
the  work  of  Thy  hands  in  them,  but  put  forth 
Thy  right  hand,  and  free  them  from  the  in- 
tolerable pains  and  anguish  of  hell,  and  lead 
them  to  the  fellowship  of  the  citizens  on  high, 
for  Thy  holy  name's  sake." 

The  perfect  faith  and  peace  in  the  old  labors 
er's  wrinkled  face,  the  look  of  fellowship  in  the 
faces  of  the  praying  angels,  who  found  in  this 
poor  home  the  simplicity  of  heart  lacking  else- 
where, impressed  Max  with  a  strange  feeling  of 
awe  and  reverence.  He  knew  that  he  should 
always  remember  this  scene,  with  the  faint  gray 
dawn  just  showing  the  dark  lattice-work  of  the 
casement  window,  and  the  wonderful  light  of 
an  unseen  Presence  which  revealed  the  angels 
round  the  bed,  and  the  answering  radiance  of 
that  praying  soul.  It  pleased  him  greatly  that 
in  this  place  the  lesson  should  have  been  made 
clear  to  him,  for  at  heart  he  was  a  republican. 

Something  of  this  he  spoke  to  his  guides. 
They  smiled,  knowing  all  his  little  foibles  and 
preferences  so  well:  and  once  more  they  bore 
him  away  over  the  sea,  until  in  the  land  of 
Luther  they  paused  before  a  palace-gate. 

Now  Max  had,  naturally  enough,  no  love  for 
palaces. 


20  MAX  HEREFORD'S  DEEA'M. 

"  Here  ?  "  he  said,  questioningly,  with  an  ex- 
pressive motion  of  the  shoulders. 

"  Yes,  here,"  said  the  angels,  smiling- ;  "  here 
for  the  fairest  sight  of  all." 

They  entered  the  palace,  and  Max  was  at 
once  aware  of  the  shadow  of  a  great  sorrow 
brooding  over  the  household.  It  filled  his 
heart  with  sympathy,  his  prejudices  were  all 
forgotten ;  but  being  weakened  by  long  ill- 
ness, he  found  himself  almost  shrinking  from 
the  mere  pain  of  the  sight  which  he  antici- 
pated. 

He  was  surprised  when  his  angels  took  him 
into  a  room  where,  beside  a  bed,  a  child  knelt 
in  prayer.  The  sun  had  just  risen,  and  its  rays 
made  a  glory  about  the  little  bent  head.  Pres- 
ently the  boy  looked  up;  tears  were  stream- 
ing down  his  face,  but  though  they  were  very 
real  tears,  very  full  of  sorrow,  they  were  with- 
out the  bitterness  and  pain  of  a  more  mature 
grief. 

The  rays  of  light  seen  through  his  wet  eye- 
lashes made  tiny  rainbows  of  blue,  and  red,  and 
yellow,  and  the  little  prince  fell  to  thinking  of 
the  beauty  of  color  and  of  what  they  had  told 
him  of  heaven.  Then  again  he  bent  his  head 
and  prayed  with  all  the  fervor  of  his  childish 


MAX  HEREFORD'S  DREA.V.  21 

heart  for  the  brother  who  had  gone  before  to 
the  homeland ;  for  were  they  not  still  one  fam- 
ily above  and  below?  And  why  should  the 
dear  name  be  left  out  of  his  prayers  because 
death  had  opened  the  gate  to  eternal  peace  and 
joy? 

The  angels  prayed,  too,  with  a  glad  light  on 
their  brows;  and  Max  Hereford  thanked  God, 
who  again  had  led  him,  as  so  often  before,  by  a 
little  child. 

Once  more  they  passed  into  the  outer  world, 
and  he  felt  on  him  the  fresh,  invigorating 
breath  of  early  day,  and  the  sunshine  streamed 
over  him  and  seemed  to  fill  him  with  new 
life. 


"  It  is  the  best  night  you  have  had,"  said  the 
sick-nurse,  looking  with  professional  satisfac- 
tion at  the  clear,  quiet  light  in  his  eyes.  "  That 
sleep  has  done  you  a  power  of  good." 

Max  smiled. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "you  are  quite  right.  'Tis 
the  best  night  I  ever  had." 

"You  have  turned  the  corner,"  she  added, 
touching  his  cool  hand,  "  and  now  all  that  you 
want  is  patience  to  climb  up  the  hill." 


22  MAX  HEREFORD'S  DREAM. 

He  nodded  a  cheerful  assent — no  longer  chaf- 
ing at  the  prospect  of  a  tedious  recovery;  for 
was  there  not  much  for  him  to  do — much  that 
he  had  all  his  life  neglected  ? 


DERRICK  VAUGHAN, 
NOVELIST 


COPYRIGHT,  1891,  BY 
UNITED  STATES  BOOK  COMPANY 

All  rights  reserved 


TO  MY  DEAB  FRIEND 

MARY  DAVIES 

[CHIEF  SOKGSTBESS  OF  WALES,) 

I  DBDICATE  THIS  BOOK. 


DERRICK  VAUGHAN, 

NOVELIST. 
CHAPTER  I. 

"Nothing  fills  a  child's  mind  like  a  large  old  mansion; 
better  if  un-  or  partially  occupied;  people  with  the  spirits 
of  deceased  members  of  the  county  and  Justices  of  the 
Quorum.  Would  I  were  buried  in  the  peopled  solitude  of 
one,  with  my  feelings  at  seven  years  old  !" — From  Letters 
of  CHARLES  LAMB. 

To  attempt  a  formal  biography  of  Derrick 
Vaughan  would  be  out  of  the  question,  even 
though  he  and  I  have  been  more  or  less  thrown 
together  since  we  were  both  in  the  nursery.  But 
I  have  an  odd  sort  of  wish  to  note  down  roughly 
just  a  few  of  my  recollections  of  him,  and  to  show 
how  his  fortunes  gradually  developed,  being  per- 
haps stimulated  to  make  the  attempt  by  certain 
irritating  remarks  which  one  overhears  now  often 
enough  at  clubs  or  in  drawing-rooms,  or  indeed 
wherever  one  goes.  "  Derrick  Vaugban,"  sa,v 


6  DERRICK  VAUGUAN—  NOVELIST. 

these  authorities  of  the  world  of  small-talk,  with 
that  delightful  air  of  omniscience  which  invari- 
ably characterizes  them,  "  why,  he  simply  leapt 
into  fame.  He  is  one  of  the  favorites  of  for- 
tune. Like  Byron,  he  woke  one  morning  and 
found  himself  famous." 

Now  this  sounds  well  enough,  but  it  is  a  long 
way  from  the  truth,  and  I — Sydney  Wharncliff-e, 
of  the  Inner  Temple,  Barrister-at-law — desire 
while  the  past  few  years  are  fresh  in  my  mind  to 
write  a  true  version  of  my  friend's  career. 

Every  one  knows  his  face.  Has  it  not  ap- 
peared in  "  Noted  Men,"  and — gradually  deteri- 
orating according  to  the  price  of  the  paper  and 
the  quality  of  the  engraving — in  many  another 
illustrated  journal?  Yet  somehow  these  works 
of  art  don't  satisfy  me,  and,  as  I  write,  I  see  be- 
fore me  something  very  different  from  the  latest 
photograph  by  Messrs.  Paul  and  Reynard. 

I  see  a  large-featured,  broad-browed  English 
face,  a  trifle  heavy-looking  when  in  repose,  yet 
a  thorough,  honest,  manly  face,  with  a  complex- 
ion neither  dark  nor  fair,  with  brown  hair  and 
moustache,  and  with  light  hazel  eyes  that  look 
out  on  the  world  quietly  enough.  You  might 
talk  to  him  for  long  in  an  ordinary  way  and  never 


DERRICK  VAUGHAN— NOVELIST.  1 

suspect  that  he  was  a  genius ;  but  when  you 
have  him  to  yourself,  when  some  consciousness 
of  sympathy  roused  him,  he  all  at  once  becomes 
a  different  being.  His  quiet  eyes  kindle,  his 
face  becomes  full  of  life — you  wonder  that  you 
ever  thought  it  heavy  or  commonplace.  Then 
the  world  interrupts  in  some  way  and,  just  as  a 
hermit-crab  draws  down  its  shell  with  a  comi- 
cally rapid  movement,  so  Derrick  suddenly  re- 
tires into  himself. 

Thus  much  for  his  outer  man. 

For  the  rest,  there  are  of  course  the  neat  little 
accounts  of  his  birth,  his  parentage,  his  educa- 
&c.,  &c.,  published  with  the  list  of  his  works  in 
due  order,  with  the  engravings  in  the  illustrated 
papers.  But  these  tell  little  of  the  real  life  of 
the  man. 

Carh-le,  in  one  of  his  finest  passages,  says  that 
"  A  true  delineation  of  the  smallest  man  and  his 
scene  of  pilgrimage  though  life  is  capable  of  in- 
teresting the  greatest  men ;  that  all  men  are  to 
an  unspeakable  degree  brothers,  each  man's  life 
a  strange  emblem  of  every  man's ;  and  that  hu- 
man portraits  faithfully  drawn  are  of  all  pictures 
the  welcomest  on  human  walls."  And  though  I 
don't  profess  to  give  a  portrait,  but  merely  a 


8  DERRICK  VAUGHAN— NOVELIST. 

sketch,  I  will  endeavor  to  sketch  faithfully,  and 
possibly  in  the  future  my  work  may  fall  into  th« 
hands  of  some  of  those  worthy  people  who  im- 
agine that  my  friend  leapt  into  fame  at  a  bound, 
or  of  those  comfortable  mortals  who  seem  to 
think  that  a  novel  is  turned  out  as  easily  as  water 
from  a  tap. 

There  is,  however,  one  think  I  can  never  do : 
— I  am  quite  unable  to  but  into  words  my  friend's 
intensely  strong  feeling  with  regard  to  the  sacred- 
ness  of  his  profession.  It  seemed  to  me  not  un- 
like the  feeling  of  Isaiah  when,  in  the  vision,  his 
mouth  had  been  touched  with  the  celestial  fire. 
And  I  can  only  hope  that  something  of  this  may 
be  read  between  my  very  inadequate  lines. 

Looking  back,  I  fancy  Derrick  must  have  been 
a  clever  child.  But  he  was  not  precocious,  and 
in  some  respects  was  even  decidedly  backward. 

I  can  see  him  now,  it  is  my  first  clear  recollec- 
tion of  him,  leaning  back  in  the  corner  of  my 
father's  carriage  as  we  drove  from  the  New- 
market station  to  our  summer  home  at  Mondis- 
field.  He  and  I  were  small  boys  of  eight,  and 
Derrick  had  been  invited  for  the  holidays,  while 
his  twin  brother — if  I  remember  right — indulged 
in  typhoid  fever  at  Kensington.  He  was  shy  and 


DERRICK  VAUGHAy— NOVELIST.  9 

silent,  and  the  ice  was  not  broken  until  we 
passed  Silvery  Steeple. 

"  That,"  said  my  father,  "  is  a  ruined  church  ; 
it  was  destroyed  by  Cromwell  in  the  Civil  Wars." 

In  an  instant  the  small  quiet  boy  sitting  beside 
me  was  transformed.  His  eyes  shone  ;  he  sprang 
forward  and  thrust  his  head  far  out  of  the 
window,  gazing  at  the  old  ivy-covored  tower  as 
long  as  it  remained  in  sight. 

"  Was  Cromwell  really  once  there  ?  "  he  asked 
with  breathless  interest. 

"  So  they  say,"  replied  my  father,  looking  with 
an  amused  smile  at  the  face  of  the  questioner,  in 
which  eagerness,  delight,  and  reverence  were 
mingled.  "  Are  you  an  admirer  of  the  Lord 
Protector?" 

"  He  is  my  greatest  hero  of  all,"  said  Derrick 
fervently.  "  Do  you  think — oh,  do  you  think 
he  possibly  can  ever  have  come  to  Mondisfield  ?  " 

My  father  thought  not,  but  said  there  was  an 
old  tradition  that  the  Hall  had  been  attacked  by 
the  Royalists,  and  the  bridge  over  the  moat  de- 
fended by  the  owner  of  the  house ;  but  he  had 
no  great  belief  in  the  story,  for  which,  indeed, 
there  seemed  no  evidence. 

Derrick's  eves  during  this  conversation  were 


-J  DERRICK  VAUG II AN— NOVELIST. 

something  wonderful  to  see,  and  long  after,  when 
we  were  not  actually  playing  at  anything,  I  used 
often  to  notice  the  same  expression  stealing  over 
him,  and  would  cry  out,  "  There  is  the  man 
defending  the  bridge  again,  I  can  see  him  in 
your  eyes  !  Tell  me  what  happened  to  him 
next ! " 

Then,  generally  pacing  to  and  fro  in  the  apple 
walk,  or  sitting  astride  the  bridge  itself,  Derrick 
would  tell  me  of  the  adventures  of  my  ancestor, 
Panl  Wharncliffe,  who  performed  incredible  feats 
of  valor,  and  who  was  to  both  of  us  a  most  real 
person.  On  wet  days  he  wrote  his  story  in  a 
copy-book,  and  would  have  worked  at  it  for 
hours  had  my  mother  allowed  him,  though  of  the 
manual  part  of  the  work  he  had,  and  has  always 
retained,  the  greatest  dislike.  I  remember  well 
the  comical  ending  of  this  first  story  of  his.  lie 
skipped  over  an  interval  of  ten  years,  represented 
on  the  page  by  ten  laboriously  made  stars,  and 
did  for  his  hero  in  the  following  lines  : — • 

"  And  now,  reader,  let  us  come  into  Mondis- 
field  churchyard.  There  are  three  tombstones. 
On  one  is  written, '  Mr.  Paul  Wharncliffe.' ' 

The  story  was  no  better  than  the  productions 
of  most  eight-year-old  children,  the  written  story 


DERRICK  VAUGHAN— NOVELIST.  H 

at  least.  But  curiously  enough  it  proved  to  be 
the  germ  of  the  celebrated  romance  'At  Strife,' 
which  Derrick  wrote  in  after  years  ;  and  he  him- 
self maintains  that  his  picture  of  life  during  the 
Civil  War  would  have  been  much  less  graphic 
had  he  not  lived  so  much  in  the  past  during  his 
various  visits  to  Mondisfield. 

It  was  at  his  second  visit,  when  we  were  nine, 
that  I  remember  his  announcing  his  intention  of 
being  an  author  when  he  was  grown  up.  My 
mother  still  delights  in  telling  the  story.  She 
was  sitting  at  work  in  the  south  parlor  one  day, 
when  I  dashed  into  the  room  calling  out — 

"  Derrick's  head  is  stuck  between  the  banisters 
in  the  gallery ;  come  quick,  mother,  come  quick  I " 

She  ran  up  the  little  winding  staircase  and 
there,  sure  enough,  in  the  musician's  gallery,  was 
poor  Derrick,  his  manuscript  and  pen  on  the 
floor  and  his  head  in  durance  vile. 

"  You  silly  boy !  "  said  my  mother,  a  little 
frightened  when  she  found  that  to  get  the  head 
back  was  no  easy  matter.  "  What  made  you 
put  it  through  ?  " 

"  You  look  like  King  Charles  at  Carisbrooke,'' 
I  cried,  forgetting  how  much  Derrick  would 
resent  the  speech. 


12  DERRICK  VAUGUAN—  NOVELIST. 

And  being  released  at  that  moment  lie  took 
me  by  the  shoulders  and  gave  me  an  angry  shake 
or  two,  as  he  said  vehemently,  "  I'm  not  like 
King  Charles  !  King  Charles  was  a  liar." 

I  saw  my  mother  smile  a  little  as  she  separated 
us. 

"  Come  boys,  don't  quarrel,"  she  said.  "  And 
Derrick  will  tell  me  the  truth,  for  indeed  I  am 
curious  to  know  why  he  thrust  his  head  in  such 
a  place." 

"I  wanted  to  make  sure,"  said  Derrick, 
"  whether  Paul  Wharu cliff e  could  see  Lady 
Lettice  when  she  took  the  falcon  on  her  wrist 
below  in  the  passage.  I  mustn't  say  he  saw  her 
if  it's  impossible,  you  know.  Authors  have  to 
be  quite  true  in  little  things,  and  I  mean  to  be 
an  author." 

"  But,"  said  my  mother,  laughing  at  the  great 
earnestness  of  the  hazel  eyes,  "  could  not  your 
hero  look  over  the  top  of  the  rail  ?  " 

"  Well,  yes,"  said  Derrick.  "  He  would  have 
done  that,  but  you  see  it's  so  dreadfully  high  and 
I  couldn't  get  up.  Bnt  I  tell  you  what,  Mrs. 
Wharncliffe,  if  it  wouldn't  be  giving  you  a  great 
deal  of  trouble — I'm  sorry  you  were  troubled  to 
get  my  head  back  again — but  if  you  would  just 


DERRICK  VAUGUAN—  NOVELIST.  l\ 

look  over,  since  you  are  so  tall,  and  I'll  run  down 
and  act  Lady  Lettice." 

"  Why  couldn't  Paul  go  downstairs  and  look 
at  the  lady  in  comfort  ?  "  asked  my  mother. 

Derrick  mused  a  little. 

"  He  might  look  at  her  through  a  crack  in  the 
door  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs,  perhaps,  but  that 
would  seem  mean,  somehow.  It  would  be  a  pity, 
too,  not  to  use  the  gallery ;  galleries  are  uncom- 
mon, you  see,  and  you  can  get  cracked  doors 
anywhere.  And,  you  know,  he  was  obliged  to 
look  at  her  when  she  couldn't  see  him,  because 
their  fathers  were  on  different  sides  in  the  war, 
and  dreadful  enemies." 

When  school-days  came,  matters  went  on  much 
in  the  same  way ;  there  was  always  an  abomi- 
nably scribbled  tale  stowed  away  in  Derrick's 
desk,  and  he  worked  infinitely  harder  than  I  did, 
because  there  was  always  before  him  this  deter- 
mination to  be  an  author  and  to  prepare  himself 
for  the  life.  But  he  wrote  merely  from  love  of 
it,  and  with  no  idea  of  publication  until  the 
beginning  of  our  last  year  at  Oxford,  when, 
having  reached  the  ripe  age  of  one-and-twenty, 
he  determined  to  delay  no  longer  but  to  plunge 
boldly  into  his  first  novel. 


14  DERRICK  VAUGUAN— NOVELIST. 

He  was  seldom  able  to  get  more  than  six  or 
eight  hours  a  week  for  it,  because  he  was  reading 
rather  hard,  so  that  the  novel  progressed  but 
slowly.  Finally,  to  my  astonishment,  it  came  to 
a  dead  stand-still. 

I  have  never  made  out  exactly  what  was  wrong 
with  Derrick  then,  though  I  know  that  he  passed 
through  a  terrible  time  of  doubt  and  despair.  I 
spent  part  of  the  Long  with  him  down  at  Vent- 
nor,  where  his  mother  had  been  ordered  for  her 
health.  She  was  devoted  to  Derrick,  and,  as  far 
as  I  can  understand,  he  was  her  chief  comfort  in 
life.  Major  Vaughan,  the  husband,  had  been  out 
in  India  for  years ;  the  only  daughter  was  mar- 
ried to  a  rich  manufacturer  at  Birmingham,  who 
had  a  constitutional  dislike  to  mothers-in-law, 
and  as  far  as  possible  eschewed  their  company  ; 
while  Lawrence,  Derrick's  twin  brother,  was  for- 
ever getting  into  scrapes,  and  was  into  the  bar- 
gain the  most  unblushingly  selfish  fellow  I  ever 
had  the  pleasure  of  meeting. 

"Sydney,"  said  Mrs.  Vaughan  to  me  one 
afternoon  when  we  were  in  the  garden,  "  Derrick 
seems  to  me  unlike  himself,  there  is  a  division 
between  us  which  I  never  felt  before.  Can  you 
tell  me  what  is  troubling  him  ?  " 


DERRICK  VAUGUAN—  NOVELIST.  15 

She  was  not  at  all  a  good-looking  woman,  but 
she  had  a  very  sweet,  wistful  face,  and  I  never 
looked  at  her  sad  eyes  without  feeling  ready  to 
go  through  fire  and  water  for  her.  1  tried  now 
to  make  light  of  Derrick's  depression. 

"  He  is  only  going  through  what  we  all  of  us 
go  through,"  I  said,  assuming  a  cheerful  tone. 
"  He  has  suddenly  discovered  that  life  is  a  great 
riddle,  and  that  the  things  he  has  accepted  in- 
blind  faith  are,  after  all,  not  so  sure." 

She  sighed. 

"Do  all  go  through  it?"  she  said,  thought- 
fully. "And  how  many,  I  wonder,  get  be- 
yond?" 

"  Few  enough,"  I  replied  moodily.  Then,  re- 
membering my  rdle,  —  "  But  Derrick  will  get 
through ;  he  has  a  thousand  things  to  help  him 
which  others  have  not, — you,  for  instance.  And 
then  I  fancy  he  has  a  sort  of  insight  which  most 
of  us  are  without." 

"  Possibly,"  she  said.  "  As  for  me,  it  is  little 
that  I  can  do  for  him.  Perhaps  you  are  right, 
and  it  is  true  that  once  in  a  life  at  any  rate  we 
all  have  to  go  into  the  wilderness  alone." 

That  was  the  last  summer  I  ever  saw  Derrick's 
mother  ;  she  took  a  chill  the  following  Christmas 


16  DERRICK  VAUGIIAN-NOVEL1ST. 

and  died  after  a  fe\v  days'  illness.  But  I  him 
always  thought  her  death  helped  Derrick  in  a  way 
that  her  life  might  have  failed  to  do.  For  al- 
though he  never,  I  fancy,  quite  recovered  from 
the  blow,  and  to  this  day  cannot  speak  of  her 
without  tears  in  his  eyes,  yet  when  he  came  back 
to  Oxford  he  seemed  to  have  found  the  answer 
to  the  riddle,  and  though  older,  sadder  and 
graver  than  before,  had  quite  lost  the  restless 
dissatisfaction  that  for  some  time  had  clouded 
his  life.  In  a  few  months,  moreover,  I  noticed  a 
fresh  sign  that  he  was  out  of  the  wood.  Coming 
into  his  rooms  one  day  I  found  him  sitting  in  the 
cushioned  window-seat,  reading  over  and  correct- 
ing some  sheets  of  blue  foolscap. 

"  At  it  again  ?  "  I  asked. 

He  nodded. 

"  I  mean  to  finish  the  first  volume  here.  For 
the  rest  I  must  be  in  London." 

"  Why  ?  "  I  asked,  a  little  curious  as  to  this 
unknown  art  of  novel-making. 

"  Because,"  he  replied,  "  one  must  be  in  the 
heart  of  things  to  understand  how  Lynwood  was 
affected  by  them." 

"  Lynwood !  I  believe  you  are  always  thinking 
of  him!"  (Lynwood  was  the  hero  of  his  novel.) 


DERRICK  VAUGHAN— NOVELIST.  17 

"  Well  so  I  am  nearly — so  I  must  be,  if  the 
book  is  to  be  any  good." 

"  Read  me  what  you  have  written,"  I  said, 
throwing  myself  back  in  a  rickety  but  tolerably 
comfortable  arm-chair  which  Derrick  had  inher- 
ited with  the  rooms. 

He  hesitated  a  moment,  being  always  very 
diffident  about  his  own  work;  but  presently, 
having  provided  me  with  a  cigar  and  made  a  good 
deal  of  unnecessary  work  in  arranging  the  sheets 
of  the  manuscript,  he  began  to  read  aloud,  rather 
nervously,  the  opening  chapters  of  the  book  now 
so  well  known  under  the  title  of  '  Lynwood's 
Heritage.' 

I  had  heard  nothing  of  his  for  the  last  four 
years,  and  was  amazed  at  the  gigantic  stride 
he  had  made  in  the  interval.  For,  spite  of  a 
certain  crudeness,  the  story  seemed  to  me  a  most 
powerful  story;  it  rushed  straight  to  the  point 
with  no  wavering,  no  beating  about  the  bush ;  it 
flung  itself  into  the  problems  of  the  day  with  a 
sort  of  sublime  audacity ;  it  took  hold  of  one ;  it 
whirled  one  along  with  its  own  inherent  force, 
and  drew  forth  both  laughter  and  tears,  for  Der- 
rick's power  of  pathos  had  alwa}*s  been  hia 

strongest  point. 

2  > 


18  DERRICK  VAUGUAy— NOVELIST. 

All  at  once  he  stopped  reading. 

"  Go  on  !  "  I  cried,  impatiently. 

"  That  is  all,"  he  said,  gathering  the  sheets 
together. 

"  You  stopped  in  the  middle  of  a  sentence  !  " 
I  cried  in  exasperation. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  quietly,  "  for  six  months." 

"You  provoking  fellow  !  why, I  wonder?" 

"  Because  I  didn't  know  the  end." 

"  Good  heavens  !  And  do  you  know  it  now?  " 

He  looked  me  full  in  the  face,  and  there  was 
an  expression  in  his  eyes  which  puzzled  me. 

k'I  believe  I  do,"  he  said;  and,  getting  up,  he 
crossed  the  room,  put  the  manuscript  away  in  a 
drawer,  and  returning,  sat  down  in  the  window- 
seat  again,  looking  out  on  the  narrow,  paved 
street  below,  and  at  the  gray  buildings  opposite. 

I  knew  very  well  that  he  would  never  ask  me 
what  I  thought  of  the  story — that  was  not  his 
way. 

"  Derrick  !  "  I  exclaimed,  watching  his  impas- 
sive face,  "  I  believe  after  all  you  are  a  genius." 

I  hardly  know  why  I  said  "  after  all,"  but  till 
that  moment  it  had  never  struck  me  that  Derrick 
was  particularly  gifted.  He  had  so  far  got 
through  his  Oxford  career  creditably,  but  then  he 


DERRICK  VAUGH AN— NOVELIST.  19 

had  worked  hard ;  his  talents  were  not  of  a  showy 
order.  I  had  never  expected  that  he  would  set 
the  Thames  on  fire.  Even  now  it  seemed  to  me 
that  he  was  too  dreamy,  too  quiet,  too  devoid  of 
the  pushing  faculty  to  succeed  in  the  world. 

My  remark  made  him  laugh  incredulously. 

"  Define  a  genius,"  lie  said. 

For  answer  I  pulled  down  his  beloved  Imperial 
Dictionary  and  read  him  the  following  quotation 
from  De  Quincey :  "  Genius  is  that  mode  of 
intellectual  power  which  moves  in  alliance  with 
the  genial  nature ;  i.e.  with  the  capacities  of 
pleasure  and  pain  ;  whereas  talent  has  no  vestige 
of  such  an  alliance,  and  is  perfectly  independent 
of  all  human  sensibilities." 

"  Let  me  think !  You  can  certainly  enjoy 
things  a  hundred  times  more  than  I  can — and  as 
for  suffering,  why  you  were  always  a  great  hand 
at  that.  Now  listen  to  the  great  Dr.  Johnson 
and  see  if  the  cap  fits.  '  The  true  genius  is  a 
mind  of  large  general  powers  accidentally  deter- 
mined in  some  particular  direction.' 

"  *  Large  general  powers  '  ! — yes,  I  believe 
after  all  you  have  them  with — alas,  poor  Derrick  1 
one  notable  exception — the  mathematical  faculty. 
You  were  always  bad  at  figures.  We  will  stick 


20  DERRICK  VAUGUAN—  NOVELIST. 

to  De  Quincey's  definition,  and  for  heaven's  sake, 
my  dear  fellow,  do  get  Lynwood  out  of  that 
awful  plight !  No  wonder  you  were  depressed 
when  you  lived  all  this  age  with  such  a  sentence 
unfinished ! " 

"  For  the  matter  of  that,"  said  Derrick,  "  he 
can't  get  out  till  the  end  of  the  book ;  but  I  can 
begin  to  go  on  with  him  now." 

"And  when  you  leave  Oxford?  " 

"Then  I  mean  to  settle  down  in  London — to 
write  leisurely — and  possibly  to  read  for  the 
Bar." 

"  We  might  be  together,"  I  suggested.  And 
Derrick  took  to  this  idea,  being  a  man  who 
detested  solitude  and  crowds  about  equally. 
Since  his  mother's  death  he  had  been  very  much 
alone  in  the  word.  To  Lawrence  he  was  always 
loyal,  but  the  two  had  nothing  in  common,  and 
though  fond  of  his  sister  he  could  not  get  on  at 
all  with  the  manufacturer,  his  brother-in-law. 
But  this  prospect  of  life  together  in  London 
pleased  him  amazingly ;  he  began  to  recover  his 
spirits  to  a  great  extent  and  to  look  much  more 
like  himself. 

It  must  have  been  just  as  he  had  taken  his 
degree  that  he  received  a  telegram  to  announce 


DERRICK  VAUGUAX—  NOVELIST.  21 

that  Major  Vaughan  had  been  invalided  home, 
and  would  arrive  at  Southampton  in  three 
weeks'  time.  Derrick  knew  very  little  of  his 
father,  but  apparently  Mi's.  Vaughan  had  done 
her  best  to  keep  up  a  sort  of  memory  of  his 
childish  days  at  Aldershot,  and  in  these  the  part 
that  his  father  played  was  always  pleasant.  So 
he  looked  forward  to  the  meeting  not  a  little, 
while  1  from  the  first  had  my  doubts  as  to  the 
felicity  it  was  likely  to  bring  him. 

However,  it  was  ordained  that  before  the  Major's 
ship  arrived,  his  son's  whole  life  should  change  ; 
even  Lynwood  was  thrust  into  the  background. 
As  for  me,  I  was  nowhere,  for  Derrick,  the  quiet, 
the  self-contained,  had  fallen  passionately  in  love 
with  a  certain  Freda  Merrifield. 


DERRICK 


CHAPTER  II. 

"  Infancy  ?    What  if  the  rose-streak  of  morning 
Pale  and  depart  in  a  passion  of  tears  ? 
Once  to  have  hoped  is  no  matter  for  scorning  : 
Love  once  :  e'en  love's  disappointment  endears, 
A  moment's  success  pays  the  failure  of  years." 

li.  BROWNING. 

THE  wonder  would  have  been  if  he  had  not 
fallen  in  love  witli  her,  for  a  more  fascinating  girl 
I  never  saw.  She  had  only  just  returned  from 
school  at  Compiegne,  and  was  not  yet  out ;  her 
charming  freshness  was  unsullied — she  had  all 
the  simplicity  and  straightforwardness  of  un- 
spoilt, unsophisticated  girlhood.  I  well  remem- 
ber our  first  sight  of  her.  We  had  been  invited 
for  a  fortnight's  yachting  b}-  Calvevley  of  Exeter. 
His  father,  Sir  John  Calverley,  had  a  sailing 
yacht,  and  some  guests  having  disappointed  him 
at  the  last  minute,  he  gave  his  son  carte  blanche 
as  to  who  he  should  bring  to  fill  the  vacant 
berths. 

So  we  three  travelled  down  to  Southampton 


DERRICK  VAUGIIAN—  NOVELIST.  23 

together,  one  hot  summer  day,  and  were  rowed 
out  to  the  Aurora,  an  uncommonly  neat  little 
schooner  which  lay  in  that  over-rated  and  fre- 
quently odoriferous  roadstead,  Southampton 
Water.  However,  I  admit  that  on  that  evening 
— the  tide  being  high — the  place  looked  remark- 
ably pretty;  the  level  rays  of  the  setting  sun 
turned  the  water  to  gold,  a  soft  luminous  haze 
hung  over  the  town  and  the  shipping,  and  by  a 
stretch  of  imagination  one  might  have  thought 
the  view  almost  Venetian.  Derrick's  perfect 
content  was  only  marred  by  his  shyness.  I  knew 
that  he  dreaded  reaching  the  Aurora  ;  and  sure 
enough  as  we  stepped  on  to  the  exquisitely  white 
deck  and  caught  sight  of  the  little  group  of 
guests,  I  saw  him  retreat  into  his  crab-shell  of 
silent  reserve.  Sir  John,  who  made  a  very 
pleasant  host,  introduced  us  to  the  other  visitors 
— Lord  Probyn  and  his  wife,  and  their  niece, 
Miss  Freda  Merrifield.  Lady  Probyn  was  Sir 
John's  sister,  and  also  the  sister  of  Miss  Merri- 
field's  mother ;  so  that  it  was  almost  a  family 
party,  and  by  no  means  a  formidable  gathering. 
Lady  Probyn  played  the  part  of  hostess,  and 
chaperoned  her  pretty  niece;  but  she  was  not 
in  the  least  like  the  aunt  of  fiction — on  the  con- 


24  DERRICK  VAUGIIAN—  NOVELIST. 

trary,  she  was  comparatively  young  in  years  and 
almost  comically  young  in  mind  ;  her  niece  was 
devoted  to  her,  and  the  moment  I  saw  her  I 
knew  that  our  voyage  could  not  possibly  be  dull. 

As  to  Miss  Freda,  when  we  first  caught  sight 
of  her  she  was  standing  near  the  companion, 
dressed  in  a  daintily  made  yaching  costume  of 
blue  serge  and  white  braid,  and  round  her  white 
sailor  hat  she  bore  the  name  of  the  yacht  stamped 
on  a  white  ribbon ;  in  her  waist-band  she  had 
fastened  two  deep  crimson  roses,  and  she  looked 
at  us  with  frank,  girlish  curiosity,  no  doubt  won- 
dering whether  we  should  add  to  or  detract  from 
the  enjoyment  of  the  expedition.  She  was  rather 
tall,  and  there  was  an  air  of  strength  and  energy 
about  her  which  was  most  refreshing.  Her  skin 
was  singularly  white,  but  there  was  a  healthy 
glow  of  color  in  her  cheeks ;  while  her  large, 
gray  eyes,  shaded  by  long  lashes,  were  full  of 
life  and  brightness.  As  to  her  features,  they 
were  perhaps  a  trifle  irregular,  and  her  elder 
sisters  were  supposed  to  eclipse  her  altogether ; 
but  to  my  mind  she  was  far  the  most  taking  of 
the  three. 

I  was  not  in  the  least  surpised  that  Derrick 
should  fall  head  over  ears  in  love  with  her ;  she 


DERRICK  VAUG II  AN— NOVELIST.  25 

was  exactly  the  sort  of  girl  that  would  infallibly 
attract  him.  Her  absence  of  shyness ;  her 
straightforward,  easy  way  of  talking ;  her  genuine 
good  heartedness  ;  her  devotion  to  animals — one 
of  his  own  pet  hobbies — and  finally  her  exquisite 
playing  made  the  result  a  foregone  conclusion. 
And  then,  moreover,  they  were  perpetually  to- 
gether. He  would  hang  over  the  piano  in  the 
saloon  for  hours  while  she  played,  the  rest  of  us 
lazily  enjoying  the  easy  chairs  and  the  fresh  air 
on  deck  ;  and  whenever  we  landed,  these  two 
were  sure  in  the  end  to  be  just  a  little  apart  from 
the  rest  of  us. 

It  was  an  eminently  successful  cruise.  We  all 
liked  eacli  other;  the  sea  was  calm,  the  sunshine 
constant,  the  wind  as  a  rule  favorable,  and  I 
think  I  never  in  a  single  fortnight  heard  so  many 
good  stories,  or  had  such  a  good  time.  We 
seemed  to  get  right  out  of  the  world  and  its 
narrow  restrictions,  away  from  all  that  was  hollow 
and  base  and  depressing,  only  landing  now  and 
then  at  quaint  little  quiet  places  for  some  merry 
excursion  on  shore.  Freda  was  in  the  highest 
spirits ;  and  as  to  Derrick,  lie  was  a  different 
creature.  She  seemed  to  have  the  power  of 
drawing  him  out  in  a  marvellous  degree,  and  she 


26  DERRICK  VAUGHAN— NOVELIST. 

took  the  greatest  interest  in  his  work — a  sure 
way  to  every  author's  heart. 

But  it  was  not  till  one  clay,  when  we  landed  at 
Tresco,  that  I  felt  certain  she  genuinely  loved  him 
— there  in  one  glance  the  truth  flashed  upon  me. 
I  was  walking  with  one  of  the  £  mleners  down 

O  *-7 

one  of  the  long  shady  paths  of  that  lonely  little 
island,  with  its  curiously  foreign  look,  when  we 
suddenly  came  face  to  face  with  Derrick  and 
J'reda.  They  were  talking  earnestly,  and  I 
could  see  her  great  gray  eyes  as  they  were  lifted  to 
his — perhaps  they  were  more  expressive  than 
she  knew — I  cannot  say.  They  both  started  a 
little  as  we  confronted  them,  and  the  color 
deepened  in  Freda's  face.  The  gardener,  with 
what  photographers  usually  ask  for — "just  the 
faint  beginning  of  a  smile,*' — turned  and  gathered 
a  bit  of  white  heather  growing  near. 

"  They  say  it  brings  good  luck,  miss,"  he 
remarked,  handing  it  to  Freda. 

"  Thank  you,"  she  said,  laughing,  "  I  hope  it 
will  bring  it  to  me.  At  any  rate  it  wiU  remind 
me  of  this  beautiful  island.  Isn't  it  just  like 
Paradise,  Mr.  Wharncliffe  ?  " 

"  For  me  it  is  like  Paradise  before  Eve  was 
created,"  I  replied,  rather  wickedly.  "  By  the 


DERRICK  VAUGIIAN—  NOVELIST.  27 

bye,  are  you  going  to  keep  all  the  good  luck  to 
yourself?" 

"  I  don't  know,"  she  said,  laughing.  "  Perhaps 
I  shall ;  but  you  have  only  to  ask  the  gardener, 
he  will  gather  you  another  piece  directly." 

I  took  good  care  to  drop  behind,  having  no 
taste  for  the  third  fiddle  business  ;  but  I  noticed 
when  we  were  in  the  gig  once  more,  rowing  back 
to  the  yacht,  that  the  white  heather  had  been 
equally  divided — one  half  was  in  the  waistband 
of  the  blue  serge  dress,  the  other  half  in  the 
button-hole  of  Derrick's  blazer. 

So  the  fortnight  slipped  by,  and  at  length 
one  afternoon  we  found  ourselves  once  more  in 
Southampton  water ;  then  came  the  bustle  of 
packing  and  the  hurry  of  departure,  and  the  merry 
party  dispersed.  Derrick  and  I  saw  them  all  off 
at  the  station,  for,  as  his  father's  ship  did  not 
arrive  till  the  following  day,  I  made  up  my  mind 
to  stay  on  with  him  at  Southampton. 

"  You  will  come  and  see  us  in  town,"  said 
Lady  Probyn,  kindly.  And  Lord  Probyn  invited 
us  both  for  the  shooting  at  Blachington  in 
September. 

"  We  will  have  the  same  party  on  shore,  and 
see  if  we  can't  enjoy  ourselves  almost  as  well." 


28  DERRICK 

he  said  in  his  hearty  way ;  "  the  novel  will  go 
all  the  better  for  it,  eh,  Vaughau  ?  " 

Derrick  brightened  visibly  at  the  suggestion. 
I  heard  him  talking  to  Freda  all  the  time  that 
Sir  John  stood  laughing  and  joking  as  to  the 
comparative  pleasures  of  yachting  and  shooting. 

"  You  will  be  there  too?"  Derrick  asked. 

"  I  can't  tell,"  said  Freda,  and  there  was  a 
shade  of  sadness  in  her  tone.  Her  voice  was 
deeper  than  most  women's  voices — a  rich  contralto 
with  something  striking  and  individual  about  it. 
I  could  hear  her  quite  plainly ;  but  Derrick  spoke 
less  distinctly — he  always  had  a  bad  trick  of 
mumbling. 

"  You  see  I  am  the  youngest,"  she  said,  "  and  I 
am  not  really  *  out.'  Perhaps  my  mother  will 
wish  one  of  the  elder  ones  to  go  ;  but  I  half 
think  they  are  already  engaged  for  September, 
so  after  all  I  may  have  a  chance." 

Inaudible  remark  from  my  friend. 

"  Yes,  I  came  here  because  my  sisters  did  not 
care  to  leave  London  till  the  end  of  the  season," 
replied  the  clear  contralto.  "  It  has  been  a  perfect 
cruise.  I  shall  remember  it  all  my  life.'5 

After  that,  nothing  more  was  audible  ;  but  I 
imagine  Derrick  mu^t  have  hazarded  a  more  per- 


DERRICK  VAUGUAN—  NOVELIST.  29 

sonal  question,  and  that  Freda  had  admitted 
that  it  was  not  only  the  actual  sailing  she  should 
remember.  At  any  rate  her  face  when  I  caught 
sight  of  it  again  made  me  think  of  the  girl  de- 
scribed in  the  '  Biglow  Papers ' : 

' '  "T\vas  kin'  o'  kingdom  conie  to  look 
On  sech  a  blessed  crsatnr, 
A  dogrose  blushin'  to  a  brook 
Ain't  modester  nor  sweeter.'  " 

So  the  train  went  off,  and  Derrick  and  I  were 
left  to  idle  about  Southampton  and  kill  time  as 
best  we  might.  Derrick  seemed  to  walk  the 
streets  in  a  sort  of  dream — he  was  perfectly  well 
aware  that  he  had  met  his  fate,  and  at  that  time 
no  thought  of  difficulties  in  the  way  had  arisen 
either  in  his  mind  or  in  my  own.  We  were  both 
of  us  young  and  inexperienced ;  we  were  both  of 
us  in  love,  and  we  had  the  usual  lover's  notion 
that  everything  in  heaven  and  earth  is  prepared 
to  favor  the  course  of  his  particular  passion. 

I  remember  that  we  soon  found  the  town  in- 
tolerable and,  crossing  by  the  feny,  walked  over 
to  Netley  Abbey,  and  lay  down  idly  in  the  shade 
of  the  old  gray  walls.  Not  a  breath  of  wind 
stirred  the  great  masses  of  ivy  which  were 
wreathed  about  the  ruined  church,  and  the  placo 


30  DERRICK  VAUGTI AN— NOVELIST. 

looked  so  lovely  in  its  decay,  that  we  felt  disposed 
to  judge  the  dissolute  monks  very  leniently  for 
having  behaved  so  badly  that  their  church  and 
monastery  had  to  be  opened  to  the  four  winds  of 
heaven.  After  all,  when  is  a  church  so  beautiful 
as  when  it  has  the  green  grass  for  its  floor  and 
the  sky  for  its  roof  ? 

I  could  show  you  the  very  spot  near  the  East 
window  where  Derrick  told  me  the  whole  truth, 
and  where  we  talked  over  Freda's  perfections 
and  the  probability  of  frequent  meetings  in 
London.  He  had  listened,  so  often  and  so  pa- 
tiently to  my  affairs,  that  it  seemed  an  odd  re- 
versal to  have  to  play  the  confidant ;  and  if  now  . 
and  then  my  thoughts  wandered  off  to  the  com- 
ing month  at  Mondisfield,  and  pictured  violet 
eyes  while  he  talked  of  gray,  it  was  not  from  any 
lack  of  sympathy  with  my  friend.  Derrick  was 
not  of  a  self-tormenting  nature,  and  though  I 
knew  he  was  amazed  at  the  thought  that  such  a 
girl  as  Freda  could  possibly  care  for  him,  yet  he 
believed  most  implicitly  that  this  wonderful  thing 
had  come  to  pass ;  and  remembering  her  face 
as  we  had  last  seen  it,  and  the  look  in  her  eyes 
at  Tresco,  I,  too,  had  not  a  shadow  of  a  doubt 
that  she  really  loved  him.  She  was  not  the  least 


DERRICK  VAUGIIAN—  NOVELIST.  31 

bit  of  a  flirt,  and  society  had  not  had  a  chance 
yet  of  moulding  her  into  the  ordinary  girl  of  the 
nineteenth  century. 

Perhaps  it  was  the  sudden  and  unexpected 
change  of  the  next  day  that  makes  me  remember 
Derrick's  face  so  distinctly  as  he  lay  back  on  the 
smooth  turf  that  afternoon  in  Netley  Abbey.  As 
it  looked  then,  full  of  youth  and  hope,  full  of 
that  dream  of  cloudless  love,  I  never  saw  11 
agaiu. 


32  DERRICK  VAUC11AN—SOVEL1SI. 


CHAPTER  III. 

*' Religion  in  him  never  died,  but  became  a  habit — a  habit  of 
enduring  hardness,  and  cleaving  to  the  steadfast,  perform- 
ance of  duty  in  face  of  the  strongest  allurements  to  the 
plcasanter  and  easier  course." — Life  of  Charles  Lamb,  by 

A.  AlNGEK. 

DERRICK  was  in  a  good  spirits  the  next  day. 
He  talked  much  of  Major  Vaughan,  wondered 
whether  the  voyage  home  had  restored  his  health, 
discussed  the  probable  length  of  his  leave,  and 
speculated  as  to  the  nature  of  his  illness ;  the 
telegram  had  of  course  given  no  details. 

"  There  hasn't  been  even  a  photograph  for  the 
last  five  years,"  he  remarked,  as  we  walked  down 
to  the  quay  together.  "  Yet  I  think  I  should 
know  him  anywhere,  if  it  is  only  by  his  height. 
He  used  to  look  so  well  on  horseback.  I  re- 
member as  a  child  seeing  him  in  a  sham  fight 
charging  up  Csesar's  Camp." 

"  How  old  were  you  when  he  went  out?" 

"  Oh,  quite  a  small  boy,"  replied  Derrick.  "  It 
was  just  before  I  first  stayed  with  you.  How- 
ever, lie  has  had  a  regular  succession  of  pho- 


DERRICK  VAUGHAy— NOVELIST.  33 

tographs  sent  out  toliim,  and  will  know  me  easily 
enough." 

Poor  Derrick  !  I  can't  think  of  that  day  even 
now  without  a  kind  of  mental  shiver.  We 
watched  the  great  steamer  as  it  glided  up  to  the 
quay,  and  Derrick  scanned  the  crowded  deck 
with  eager  eyes,  but  could  nowhere  see  the  tall, 
soldierly  figure  that  had  lingered  so  long  in  his 
memory.  He  stood  with  his  hand  resting  on  the 
rail  of  the  gangway,  and  when  presently  it  was 
raised  to  the  side  of  the  steamer,  he  still  kept  liis 
position,  so  that  he  could  instantly  catch  sight  of 
his  father  as  he  passed  down.  I  stood  close 
behind  him,  and  watched  the  motley  procession 
of  passengers ;  most  of  them  had  the  dull,  color- 
less skin  which  bespeaks  long  residence  in  India, 
and  a  particularly  yellow  and  peevish-looking  old 
man  was  grumbling  loudly  as  he  slowly  made  his 
way  down  the  gangway. 

"  The  most  disgraceful  scene  !  "  he  remarked. 
"  The  fellow  was  as  drunk  as  he  could  be." 

"  Who  was  it  ?  "  asked  his  companion. 

"  Why,  Major  Vaughan,  to  be  sure.  The  only 
wonder  is  that  he  hasn't  drunk  himself  to  death 
by  this  time — been  at  it  years  enough !  " 

Derrick  turned,  as  though  to  shelter  himself 


34  DERRICK  VAUGHAN—  NOVELIST. 

from  the  curious  eyes  of  the  travellers ;  but 
everywhere  the  quay  was  crowded.  It  seemed 
to  me  not  unlike  the  life  that  lay  before  him, 
with  this  new  shame,  which  could  not  be  hid; 
and  I  shall  never  forget  the  look  of  misery  in 
his  face. 

"  Most  likely  a  great  exaggeration  of  that 
spiteful  old  fogey's,"  I  said.  "'Never  believe 
anything  that  you  hear,'  is  a  sound  axiom.  Had 
you  not  better  try  to  get  on  board? " 

"Yes;  and  for  heaven's  sake  come  with  me, 
Wharncliffe  !  "  he  said.  "  It  can't  be  true  !  It 
is,  as  you  say,  that  man's  spite",  or  else  there  is 
some  one  else  of  the  name  on  board.  That 
must  be  it — some  one  else  of  the  name." 

I  don't  know  whether  he  managed  to  deceive 
himself.  We  made  our  way  on  board,  and  he 
spoke  to  one  of  the  stewards,  who  conducted  us 
to  the  saloon.  I  knew  from  the  expression  of 
the  man's  face  that  the  words  we  had  overheard 
were  but  too  true ;  it  was  a  mere  glance 
that  he  gave  us,  yet  if  he  had  said  aloud, 
"they  belong  to  that  old  drunkard!  Thank 
Heaven  I'm  not  in  their  shoes ! "  I  could  not 
have  better  understood  what  was  in  his  mind. 

There  were  three  persons  only  in  the  great 


DERRICK  VAUGUAN—  NOVELIST.  35 

saloon :  an  officer's  servant,  whose  appearance 
did  not  please  me  ;  a  fine-looking  old  man  with 
gray  hair  and  whiskers,  and  a  rough-hewn,  hon- 
est face,  apparently  the  ship's  doctor ;  and  a  tall 
grizzled  man,  in  whom  I  at  once  saw  a  sort  of 
horrible  likeness  to  Derrick — horrible  because 
this  face  was  wicked  and  degraded,  and  because 
its  owner  was  drunk — noisily  drunk. 

Derrick  paused  for  a  minute,  looking  at  his 
father ;  then,  deadly  pale,  he  turned  to  the  old 
doctor.  "  I  am  Major  Yaughan's  son,"  he  said. 

The  doctor  grasped  his  hand,  and  there  was 
something  in  the  old  man's  kindly,  chivalrous 
manner  which  brought  a  sort  of  light  into  the 
gloom. 

"I  am  very  glad  to  see  you!  "  he  exclaimed. 
"Is  the  Major's  luggage  ready?  "he  inquired, 
turning  to  the  servant.  Then,  as  the  man  re- 
plied in  the  affirmative,  "How  would  it  be,  Mr. 
Vaughan,  if  your  father's  man  just  saw  the 
things  into  a  cab?  and  then  I'll  come  on  shore 
with  you  and  see  my  patient  safely  settled  in." 

Derrick  acquiesced,  and  the  doctor  turned  to 
the  Major,  who  was  leaning  up  against  one  of 
the  pillars  of  the  saloon  and  shouting  '-'Twas  in 
Trafalgar  Bay"  in  a  way  which,  under  other 


36  DERRICK  VAUGUAN— NOVELIST. 

circumstances,  would  have  been  biglily  ccmic. 
The  doctor  interrupted  him,  as  with  much  feel- 
ing he  sang  how — 

"  England  declared  that  every  man 
That  day  had  done  his  duty." 

"Look,  Major,"  he  said;  "here  is  your  son 
come  to  meet  you." 

"  Glad  to  see  you,  my  boy,"  said  the  Major, 
reeling  forward  and  running  all  his  words  to- 

o  <-* 

gether,  "How's  your  mother?  Is  this  Law- 
rence ?  Glad  to  see  both  of  you  !  Why,  your's 
like's  two  peas!  Not  Lawrence,  do  you  say? 
Confound  it,  doctor,  how  the  ship  rolls  to-day  I" 

And  the  old  wretch  staggered  and  would  have 
fallen,  had  not  Derrick  supported  him  and 
landed  him  safely  on  one  of  the  fixed  ottomans. 

"Yes,  yes,  you're  the  son  for  me,"  he  went 
on,  with  a  bland  smile,  which  made  his  face  all 
the  more  hideous.  "  You're  not  so  rough  and 
clumsy  as  that  confounded  John  Thomas,  whose 
hands  are  like  brickbats.  I'm  a  mere  wreck, 
as  you  see  ;  it's  the  accursed  climate  !  But 
your  mother  will  soon  nurse  me  into  health 
again  ;  she  was  always  a  good  nurse,  poor  soul ! 
it  was  her  best  point.  What  with  you  and  your 
mother,  I  shall  soon  be  myself  again." 


DERRICK  VAUGIIAN— NOVELIST.  37 

Here  the  doctor  interposed,  and  Derrick  made 
desperately  for  a  porthole  and  gulped  down 
mouthfuls  of  fresh  air  :  but  he  was  not  allowed 
much  of  a  respite,  for  the  servant  returned  to 
say  that  he  had  procured  a  cab,  and  the  Major 
called  loudly  for  his  son's  arm. 

"I'll  not  have  you,"  he  said,  pushing  the  ser- 
vant violently  away.  "  Come,  Derrick,  help  me ! 
you  are  worth  two  of  that  blockhead." 

And  Derrick  came  quickly  forward,  his  face 
still  very  pale,  but  with  a  dignity  about  it  which 
I  had  never  before  seen  ;  and  giving  his  arm  to 
his  drunken  father,  he  piloted  him  across  the 
saloon,  through  the  staring  ranks  of  stewards, 
officials  and  tardy  passengers  outside,  down  the 
gangway,  and  over  the  crowded  quay  to  the  cab. 
I  knew  that  each  derisive  glance  of  the  specta- 
tors was  to  him  like  a  sword-thrust,  and  longed 
to  throttle  the  Major,  who  seemed  to  enjoy  him- 
self amazingly  on  terra  firma,  and  sang  at, the 
top  of  his  voice  as  we  drove  through  the  streets 
of  Southampton.  The  old  doctor  kept  up  a 
cheery  flow  of  small-talk  with  me,  thinking,  no 
doubt,  that  this  would  be  a  kindness  to  Derrick: 
and  at  last  that  purgatorial  drive  ended  and 
somehow  Derrick  and  the  doctor  between  them 


38  DERRICK  VAUGIIAN-NOVEL1ST. 

got  the  Major  safely  into  his  room  at  Radley'a 
Hotel. 

We  had  ordered  lunch  in  a  private  sitting- 
room,  thinking  that  the  major  would  prefer  it 
to  the  coffee-room ;  but,  as  it  turned  out,  he  was 
in  no  state  to  appear.  They  left  him  asleep,  and 
the  ship's  doctor  sat  in  the  seat  that  had  been 
prepared  for  his  patient,  and  made  the  meal  as 
tolerable  to  us  both  as  it  could  be.  He  was  an 
odd,  old-fashioned  fellow,  but  as  true  a  gentle- 
man as  ever  breathed 

"Now,"  he  said,  when  lunch  was  over,  "you 
and  I  must  just  have  a  talk  together,  Mr. 
Vaughan,  and  I  will  help  you  to  understand 
your  father's  case." 

I  made  a  movement  to  go,  but  sat  down  again 
at  Derrick's  request.  I  think,  poor  old  fellow, 
he  dreaded  being  alone,  and  knowing  that  I  had 
seen  his  father  at  the  worst,  thought  I  might  as 
well  hear  all  particulars. 

"Major  Vaughan,"  continued  the  doctor,  "has 
now  been  under  my  care  for  some  weeks,  and  I 
had  some  communication  with  the  regimental 
surgeon  about  his  case  before  he  sailed.  lie  is 
suffering  from  an  enlarged  liver,  and  the  disease 
has  been  brought  on  by  his  unfortunate  habit  of 


DEERLCK  VAUGHAN—  NOVELIST.  39 

over-indulgence  in  stimulants."  I  could  almost 
have  smiled,  so  very  gently  and  considerately 
did  the  good  old  man  veil  in  long  words  the 
shameful  fact.  "  It  is  a  habit  sadly  prevalent 
among  our  fellow  countrymen  in  India;  the 
climate  aggravates  the  mischief,  and  very  many 
lives  are  in  this  way  ruined.  Then  your  father 
was  also  unfortunate  enough  to  contract  rheu- 
matism when  he  was  camping  out  in  the  jungle 
last  year,  and  this  is  increasing  on  him  very 
much,  so  that  his  life  is  almost  intolerable  to  him, 
and  he  naturally  flies  for  relief  to  his  greatest 
enemy,  drink.  At  all  costs,  however,  you  must 
keep  him  from  stimulants ;  they  will  only  inten- 
sify the  disease  and  the  sufferings,  in  fact  they 
are  poison  to  a  man  in  such  a  state.  Don't 
think  I  am  a  bigot  in  these  matters ;  but  I  say 
that  for  a  man  in  such  a  condition  as  this,  there 
is  nothing  for  it  but  total  abstinence,  and  at  all 
costs  your  father  must  be  guarded  from  the 
possibility  of  procuring  any  sort  of  intoxicating 
drink.  Throughout  the  voyage  I  have  done  my 
best  to  shield  him,  but  it  was  a  difficult  matter. 
His  servant,  too,  is  not  trustworthy,  and  should 
be  dismissed  if  possible." 

41  Had  he  spoken  at  all  of  his  plans  ?  "  asked. 


40  DERRICK  VAUGHAN— NOVELIST. 

Derrick,  and  his  voice  sounded  strangely  uniike 
itself. 

"  He  asked  me  what  place  in  England  he  had 
better  settle  down  in,"  said  the  doctor,  "  and  I 
strongly  recommended  him  to  try  Bath.  This 
seemed  to  please  him,  and  if  he  is  well  enough 
he  had  better  go  there  to-morrow.  He  mentioned 
your  mother  this  morning;  :io  doubt  she  will 
know  how  to  manage  him." 

"  My  mother  died  six  months  ago,"  said  Derrick, 
pushing  back  his  chair  and  beginning  to  pace 
the  room.  The  doctor  made  kindly  apologies. 

"  Perhaps  you  have  a  sister  who  could  go  to 
him?" 

"  No,"  replied  Derrick.  "  My  only  sister  is 
married,  and  her  husband  would  never  allow  it.'' 

"  Or  a  cousin  or  an  aunt?"  suggested  the  old 
man,  naively  unconscious  that  the  words  sounded 
like  a  quotation. 

I  saw  the  ghost  of  smile  flit  over  Derrick's 
harassed  face  as  he  sliook  his  head. 

"  I  suggested  that  he  should  go  into  some 
Home  for — cases  of  the  kind,"  resumed  the 
doctor,  "  or  place  himself  under  the  charge  of 
some  medical  man;  however,  he  won't  hear  of 
such  a  thing,  lint  \i  he  is  left  to  himself — well, 


DERRICK  VAUGII AN— NOVELIST.  41 

it  is  all  up  with  him.  He  will  drink  himself  to 
death  in  a  few  months." 

"He  shall  not  be  left  alone,"  said  Derrick; 
"I  will  live  with  him.  Do  you  think  I  should 
do  ?  It  seems  to  be  Ilobson's  choice." 

I  looked  up  in  amazement — for  here  was  Der- 
rick calmly  giving  himself  up  to  a  life  that  must 
crush  every  plan  for  the  future  he  had  made.  Did 
men  make  such  a  choice  as  that  while  they  took 
two  or  three  turns  in  a  room?  Did  they  speak 
so  composedly  after  a  struggle  that  must  have 
been  so  bitter?  Thinking  it  over  now,  I  feel 
sure  it  was  his  extraordinary  gift  of  insight  and 
his  clear  judgment  which  made  him  behave  in 
this  way.  He  instantly  perceived  and  promptly 
acted  ;  the  worst  of  the  suffering  came  long  after. 

"  Why  of  course  you  are  the  very  best  person 
in  the  world  for  him,"  said  the  doctor.  "He 
has  taken  a  fancy  to  you,  and  evidently  you 
have  a  certain  influence  with  him.  If  any  one 
can  save  him  it  will  be  you.'* 

But  the  thought  of  allowing  Derrick  to  be 
sacrificed  to  that  old  brute  of  a  Major  was  more 
than  I  could  bear  calmly. 

"A  more  mad  scheme  was  never  proposed,"  I 
cried.  "  Why,  doctor,  it  will  be  utter  ruin  to 


42  DERRICK  VAUGIIAN— NOVELIST. 

my  friend's  career ;  lie  will  lose  years  that  no 
one  can  ever  make  up.  Ami  besides  he  is  unfit 
for  such  a  strain  ;  he  will  never  stand  it." 

My  heart  felt  hot  as  I  thought  of  Derrick,  with 
his  highly-strung  sensitive  nature,  his  refinement, 
his  gentleness,  in  constant  companionship  with 
such  a  man  as  Major  Vaughan. 

"  My  dear  sir,"  said  the  old  doctor,  with  a 
gleam  in  his  eye,  "  I  understand  your  feeling 
well  enough.  But  depend  upon  it,  your  friend 
has  made  the  right  choice,  and  there  is  no  doubt 
that  he'll  be  strong  enough  to  do  his  duty." 

The  word  reminded  me  of  the  Major's  song, 
and  my  voice  was  abominably  sarcastic  in  tone 
as  I  said  to  Derrick,  "You  no  longer  consider 
writing  your  duty  then." 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  but  it  must  stand  second  to 
this.  Don't  be  vexed,  Sydney ;  our  plans  are 
knocked  on  the  head,  but  it  is  not  so  bad  as  you 
make  out.  I  have  at  any  rate  enough  to  live  on, 
and  can  afford  to  wait." 

There  was  no  more  to  be  said,  and  the  next 
day  I  saw  that  strange  trio  set  out  on  their  road 
to  Bath.  The  Major  looking  more  wicked  when 
sober  than  he  had  done  when  drunk  ;  the  old 
doctor  kindly  and  considerate  as  ever ;  and 


DERRICK  VAUGIIAN -NOVELIST.  43 

Derrick,  with  an  air  of  resolution  about  that 
English  face  of  his,  and  a  dauntless  expression 
in  his  eyes  which  impressed  me  curiously. 

These  quiet  reserved  fellows  are  always  giving 
one  odd  surprises.  He  had  astounded  me  by 
the  vigor  and  depth  of  the  first  volume  of 
4  Lynwood's  Heritage.'  He  astonished  me  now 
by  a  new  phase  in  his  own  character.  Apparently 
he  who  had  always  been  content  to  follow  where 
I  led,  and  to  watch  life  rather  than  to  take  an 
active  share  in  it,  now  intended  to  strike  out  a 
very  decided  line  of  his  own. 


44  DERRICK 


CHAPTER  IV. 

"  Both  Goethe  and  Schiller  were  profoundly  convinced  that 
Art  was  no  luxury  of  leisure,  no  mere  amusement  to  charm 
the  idle,  or  relax  the  careworn  ;  but  a  mighty  influence, 
serious  in  its  aims  although  pleasurable  in  its  means  ;  a 
sister  of  Religion,  by  whose  aid  the  great  world-scheme 
was  wrought  into  reality." — LEWES'S  Life  of  Goethe. 

MAN  is  a  selfish  being,  and  I  am  a  particularly 
fine  specimen  of  the  race  as  far  as  that  character- 
istic goes.  If  I  had  had  a  dozen  drunken  parents 
I  should  never  have  danced  attendance  on  one  of 
them  ;  yet  in  my  secret  soul  I  admired  Derrick 
for  the  line  he  had  taken,  for  we  mostly  do 
ail  mi  re  what  is  unlike  ourselves  and  really  noble, 
though  it  is  the  fashion  to  seem  totally  indifferent 
to  everything  in  heaven  and  earth.  But  all  the 
same  I  felt  annoyed  about  the  whole  business, 
and  was  glad  to  forget  it  in  my  own  affairs  at 
Mondisfield. 

Weeks  passed  by.  I  lived  through  a  midsum- 
mer dream  of  happiness,  and  a  hard  awaking. 
That,  however,  has  nothing  to  do  with  Derrick's 
story,  and  may  be  passed  over.  In  October  I 


DERRICK  VAUG II AN— NOVELIST.  45 

settled  clown  in  Montague  Street,  Bloomsbuiy, 
and  began  to  read  for  the  Bar,  in  about  as  dis- 
agreeable a  frame  of  mind  as  can  be  conceived. 
One  morning  I  found  on  my  breakfast  table  a 
letter  in  Derrick's  handwriting.  Like  most  men, 
we  hardly  ever  corresponded — what  women  say 
in  the  eternal  letters  they  send  to  each  other  I 
can't  conceive — but  it  struck  me  that  under  the 
circumstances  I  ought  to  have  sent  him  a  line  to 
ask  how  he  was  getting  on,  and  my  conscience 
pricked  me  as  I  remembered  that  I  had  hardly 
thought  of  him  since  we  parted,  being  absorbed 
in  my  own  matters.  The  letter  was  not  very 
long,  but  when  one  read  between  the  lines  it 
somehow  told  a  good  deal.  I  have  it  lying  by 
me,  and  this  is  a  copy  of  it : — 

"DEAR  SYDNEY,  —  Do  like  a  good  fellow  go  to  North 
Audley  Street  for  me,  to  the  house  which  I  described  to  you 
as  the  one  where  Lynwood  lodged,  and  tell  me  what  he  would 
see  besides  the  church  from  his  window — if  shops,  what 
kind  ?  Also  if  any  glimpse  of  Oxford  Street  would  be  visible. 
Then  if  you'll  add  to  your  favors  by  getting  me  a  second 
hand  copy  of  Laveleye's  'Socialisme  Contemporain,'  I  should 
be  forever  grateful .  We  are  settled  in  here  all  right.  Bath 
is  empty,  but  I  people  it  as  far  as  I  can  with  the  folk  out  of 
'Evelina'  and  'Persuasion.'  How  did  you  get  on  at  Blach- 
iiigton  ?  and  which  of  the  Misses  Merrifield  went  in  the  end  ? 
Don't  bother  about  the  commissions.  Any  time  will  do. 
Ever  yours, 

"DERRICK  VAUGUAN." 


46  DERRICK  VAUGIT  AN— NOVELIST. 

Poor  old  fellow !  al!  the  spirit  seemed  knocked 
out  of  him.  There  was  not  one  word  about  the 
Major,  and  who  could  say  what  wretchednees 
was  veiled  in  that  curt  phrase,  "  we  are  settled 
in  all  right  "  ?  Al!  right !  it  was  all  as  wrong  as 
it  could  be !  My  blood  began  to  boil  at  the 
thought  of  Derrick,  with  his  great  powers — his 
•wonderful  gift — cooped  up  in  a  place  where  the 
study  of  life  was  so  limited  and  so  dull.  Then 
there  was  his  hunger  for  news  of  Freda,  and  his 
silence  as  to  what  had  kept  him  away  from 
Blachington,  and  about  all  a  sort  of  proud  hu- 
mility which  prevented  him  from  saying  much 
that  I  should  have  expected  him  to  say  under 
the  circumstances. 

It  was  Saturday,  and  my  time  was  my  own. 
I  went  out,  got  his  book  for  him  ;  interviewed 
North  Audley  Street;  spent  a  bad  five  minutes 
in  company  with  that  villain  *  Bradshaw,'  who 
is  responsible  for  so  much  of  the  brain  and  eye 
disease  of  the  nineteenth  century,  and  finally 
left  Paddington  in  the  Flying  Dutchman,  which 
landed  me  at  Bath  early  in  the  afternoon.  I  left 
my  portmanteau  at  the  station,  and  walked 
through  the  city  till  I  reached  Gay  Street.  Like 
most  of  the  streets  of  Bath,  it  was  broad,  and 


DERRICK  VAUGUAN— NOVELIST.  47 

had  on  either  hand  dull,  well-built,  dark  gray, 
eminently  respectable,  unutterably  dreary-look- 
ing houses.  I  rang,  and  the  door  was  opened  to 
me  by  a  most  quaint  old  woman,  evidently  the 
landlady.  An  odor  of  curry  pervaded  the  pas- 
sage, and  became  more  oppressive  as  the  door  of 
the  sitting-room  was  opened,  and  I  was  ushered 
in  upon  the  Major  and  his  son,  who  had  just 
finished  lunch. 

"  Hullo!  "  cried  Derrick,  springing  up,  his  face 
full  of  delight  which  touched  me,  while  at  the 
same  time  it  filled  me  with  envy. 

Even  the  Major  thought  fit  to  give  me  a  hearty 
welcome. 

"  Glad  to  see  you  again,"  he  said,  pleasantly 
enough.  "It's  a  relief  to  have  a  fresh  face  to 
look  at.  We  have  a  room  which  is  quite  at  your 
disposal,  and  I  hope  you'll  stay  with  us.  Brought 
your  portmanteau,  eh  ?  " 

"  It  is  at  the  station,"  I  replied. 

"  See  that  it  is  sent  for,"  he  said  to  Derrick ; 
"and  show  Mr.  WharnclifTe  all  that  is  to  be  seen 
in  this  cursed  hole  of  a  place."  Then,  turning 
again  to  me,  "Have  you  lunched?  Very  well, 
then,  don't  waste  this  fine  afternoon  in  an  in- 
valid's room,  but  be  off  and  enjoy  yourself." 

4 


i3  LERRICK  VAUGllAN— NOVELIST. 

So  cordial  was  the  old  man,  that  I  should  have 
thought  him  already  a  reformed  character,  had 
I  not  found  that  he  kept  the  -  'Ugh  side  f  hi;- 
tongue  for  home  use.  Derrick  placed  a  novel 
and  a  small  hand-bell  within  his  reach,  and  \ve 
were  just  going,  when  we  were  checked  by  a 
volley  of  oaths  from  the  Major ;  then  a  book 
came  flying  across  the  room,  well-aimed  at  Der- 
rick's head.  He  stepped  aside,  and  let  it  fall 
with  a  crash  en  the  sideboard. 

*  What  do  }'ou  mean  by  giving  me  the  second 
volume  when  you  know  I  am  in  the  third?  ' 
fumed  the  invalid. 

He  apologized  quietly,  fetched  the  third  vol- 
ume, straightened  the  disordered  leaves  of  the 
dise;vrded  second,  and  with  the  air  of  one  well 
accustomed  to  such  little  domestic  scenes,  took 
up  his  hat  and  came  out  with  me. 

"  How  long  do  you  intend  to  go  on  playing 
David  to  the  Major's  Saul?"  I  asked,  marvelling 
at  the  way  in  which  he  endured  the  humors  of 
his  father. 

"As  long  as  I  have  the  chance,"  he  replied. 
"  I  say,  are  you  sure  you  won't  miud  staying 
with  us?  It  can't  be  a  very  comfortable  house- 
hold for  an  outsider." 


DERRICK  VAUGHAN— NOVELIST.  49 

u  Much  better  than  for  an  insider,  to  all  ap- 
pearance," I  replied.  "  I'm  only  too  delighted 
to  stay.  And  now,  old  fellow,  tell  me  the  hon- 
est truth — you  didn't,  you  know,  in  your  letter 
— how  have  you  been  getting  on  ?  " 

Derrick  launched  into  an  account  of  his  father's 
ailments. 

"  Oh,  hang  the  Major !  I  don't  care  about 
him,  I  want  to  know  about  you,"  I  cried. 

"  About  me  ?  "  said  Derrick  doubtfully.  "  Oh, 
I'm  right  enough." 

"  What  do  you  do  with  yourself  ?  How  on 
earth  do  you  kill  time  ?  "  I  asked.  "  Come,  give 
me  a  full,  true,  and  particular  account  of  it  all." 

"We  have  tried  three  other  servants,"  said 
Derrick  ;  "  but  the  plan  doesn't  answer.  They 
either  won't  stand  it,  or  eLse  they  are  bribed 
into  smuggling  brandy  into  the  house.  I  find  I 
can  do  most  tilings  for  my  father,  and  in  the 
morning  he  has  an  attendant  from  the  hospital 
who  is  trustworthy,  and  who  does  what  is  nec- 
essary for  him.  At  ten  we  breakfast  together, 
then  there  are  the  morning  papers  which  he  likes 
to  have  read  to  him.  After  that  I  go  round  to 
the  Pump  Room  with  him — odd  contrast  now 
to  what  it  must  have  been  when  Bath  was  the 


60  DERRICK  VAUGHAN— NOVELIST. 

rage.  Then  we  have  lunch.  In  the  afternoon, 
if  he  is  well  enough  we  drive ;  if  not,  he  sleeps, 
and  I  get  a  walk.  Later  on  an  old  Indian  friend 
of  liis  will  sometimes  drop  in ;  if  not,  he  likes  to 
be  read  to  until  dinner.  After  dinner  we  play 
chess — he  is  a  first-rate  player.  At  ten  I  help  him 
to  bed  ;  from  eleven  to  twelve  I  smoke  and  study 
Socialism  and  all  the  rest  of  it  that  Lynwood  is 
at  present  floundering  in." 

"  Why  don't  yon  write  then?  " 

"  I  tried  it,  but  it  didn't  answer.  I  couldn't 
sleep  after  it,  and  was  in  fact  too  tired ;  seems 
absurd  to  be  tired  after  such  a  day  as  that,  but 
somehow  it  takes  it  out  of  one  more  than  the 
hardest  reading ;  I  don't  know  why. 

"  Why,"  I  said,  angrily, "  it's  because  it  is  work 
to  which  you  are  quite  unsuited — work  for  a 
thin-skinned,  hard-hearted,  uncultivated  and 
well-paid  attendant,  not  for  the  novelist  who  is 
to  be  the  chief  light  of  our  generation. 

He  laughed  at  this  estimate  of  his  powers. 

"Novelists,  like  other  cattle,  have  to  obey 
their  owner,"  he  said,  lightly. 

I  thought  for  a  moment  that  he  meant  the 
Major,  and  was  breaking  into  an  angry  remon- 
strance, when  I  saw  that  he  meant  something 


DERRICK  VAUOHAN— NOVELIST.  51 

quite  different.  It  was  always  his  strongest 
point,  this  extraordinary  consciousness  of  right, 
this  unwavering  belief  that  he  had  to  do  and 
therefore  could  do  certain  things.  Without  this, 
I  know  that  he  never  wrote  a  line,  and  in  my 
heart  I  believe  that  this  was  the  cause  of  his 
success. 

"  Then  you  are  not  writing  at  all  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  Yes,  I  write  generally  for  a  couple  of  hours 
before  breakfast,"  he  said. 

And  that  evening  we  sat  by  his  gas  stove  and  he 
read  me  the  next  four  chapters  of  '  Lynwood.' 
He  had  rather  a  dismal  lodging-house  bed-room, 
with  faded  wall-paper  and  prosaic  snuff-colored 
carpet.  On  a  rickety  table  in  the  window  was 
his  desk,  and  a  portfolio  full  of  blue  foolscap,  but 
he  had  done  what  he  could  to  make  the  place 
habitable  ;  his  Oxford  pictures  were  on  the  walls 
— Hoffmann's  "  Christ  speaking  to  the  Woman 
taken  in  Adultery "  hanging  over  the  mantel- 
piece— it  had  always  been  a  favorite  of  his.  I 
remember  that,  as  he  read  the  description  of 
Lynwood  and  his  wife,  I  kept  looking  from  him 
to  the  Christ  in  the  picture,  till  I  could  almost 
have  fancied  that  each  face  bore  the  same  ex- 
pression. Had  his  strange  monotonous  life  with 


£2  DERRICK  VAUGII AN— NOVELIST. 

that  old  brute  of  a  Major  brought  him  some  new 
perception  of  those  words,  "Neither  do  I  con- 
demn thee  "  ?  But  when  he  stopped  reading,  I, 
true  to  my  character,  forgot  his  affairs  in  my 
own,  and  we  sat  talking  far  into  the  night — talk- 
ing of  that  luckless  month  at  Mondisfield,  of  all 
the  problems  it  had  opened  up,  and  of  my  wretch- 
edness. 

"  You  were  in  town  all  September  ?  "  he  asked ; 
"you  gave  up  Blachington ?  " 

"  Yes,"  I  replied.  "  What  did  I  care  for  coun- 
try houses  in  such  a  mood  as  that  ?  " 

He  acquiesced,  and  I  went  on  talking  of  my 
grievances,  and  it  was  not  till  I  was  in  the  train, 
on  my  back  to  London,  that  I  remembered  how 
a  look  of  disappointment  had  passed  over  his 
face  just  at  the  moment.  Evidently  he  had 
counted  on  learning  something  about  Freda  from 
me,  and  I — well,  I  had  clean  forgotten  both  her 
existence  and  his  passionate  love. 

Something,  probably  self-interest,  the  desire  for 
my  friend's  company,  and  so  forth,  took  me  down 
to  Bath  pretty  frequently  in  those  days;  luckily 
the  Major  had  a  sort  of  liking  for  me,  and  was  al- 
ways polite  enough  ;  and  dear  old  Derrick, — well, 
I  believe  my  visits  really  helped  to  brighten  him 


DERRICK  VAUGH AN— NOVELIST.  & 

up.  At  any  rate  lie  said  he  couldn't  have  borne 
his  life  without  them,  and  for  a  sceptical,  dismal, 
cynical  fellow  like  me  to  hear  that  was  somehow 
flattering.  The  mere  force  of  contrast  did  me 
good.  I  used  to  come  back  on  the  Monday  won- 
dering that  Derrick  didn't  cut  his  throat,  and 
realizing  that,  after  all,  it  was  something  to 
be  a  free  agent,  and  to  have  comfortable  rooms 
in  Montague  Street,  with  no  old  bear  of  a  drunk- 
ard to  disturb  my  peace.  And  then  a  sort  of  ad- 
miration sprang  up  in  my  heart,  and  the  cynicism 
bred  of  melancholy  broodings  over  solitary  pipes 
was  less  rampant  than  usual. 

It  was,  I  think,  early  in  the  new  year  that  I 
met  Lawrence  Vaughan  in  Bath.  He  was  not 
staying  at  Gay  Street,  so  I  could  still  have  the 
vacant  room  next  to  Derrick's.  Lawrence  put 
up  at  the  York  House  Hotel. 

"  For  you  know,"  he  informed  me,  "  I  really 
can't  stand  the  governor  for  more  than  an  hour 
or  two  at  a  time." 

"  Derrick  manages  to  do  it,"  I  said. 

"  Oh,  Derrick,  yes,"  he  replied,  "  it's  his  metier 
and  he  is  well-accustomed  to  the  life.  Besides, 
you  know,  he  is  such  a  dreamy  quiet  sort  of 
fellow  ;  he  lives  all  the  time  in  a  world  of  his 


C4  DERRICK  VAUGHAN— NOVELIST. 

cvrn  creation,  and  bears  the  discomforts  of  this 
world  with  great  philosophy.  Actually  he  has 
turned  teetotaler  !  It  would  kill  me  in  a  week." 

I  make  a  point  of  never  arguing  with  a  fellow 
like  that,  but  I  think  I  had  a  vindictive  longing, 
as  I  looked  at  him,  to  shut  him  up  with  the 
Major  for  a  month,  and  see  what  would  happen. 

These  twin  brothers  were  curiously  alike  in  face 
and  curiously  unlike  in  nature.  So  much  for 
the  great  science  of  physiognomy.  It  often 
seemed  to  me  that  they  were  the  complement 
of  each  other.  For  instance,  Derrick  in  society 
was  extremely  silent,  Lawrence  was  a  rattling 
talker  ;  Derrick  when  alone  with  you,  would 
now  and  then  reveal  unsuspected  depths  of 
thought  and  expression  ;  Lawrence,  when  alone 
with  you,  very  frequently  showed  himself  to  be 
a  cad.  The  elder  twin  was  modest  and  diffident, 
the  younger  inclined  to  brag  ;  the  one  had  a 
strong  tendency  to  melancholy,  the  other  was 
blest  or  curst  with  the  sort  of  temperament  which 
has  been  said  to  accompany  "  a  hard  heart  and  a 
good  digestion." 

"  I  was  not  surprised  to  find  that  the  son  who 
could  not  tolerate  the  governor's  presence  for 
more  than  an  hour  or  two,  was  a  prime  favorite 


DEREICK  VAUGHAJS— NOVELIST.  65 

with  the  old  man  :  that  was  just  the  way  of  the 
world.  Of  course,  the  Major  was  as  polite  as 
possible  to  him  ;  Derrick  got  the  kicks  and 
Lawrence  the  halfpence. 

In  the  evenings  we  played  whist,  Lawrence 
coming  in  after  dinner,  "For,  you  know,"  he 
explained  to  me,  "  I  really  couldn't  get  through 
a  meal  with  nothing  but  those  infernal  mineral 
waters  to  wash  it  down." 

And  here  I  must  own  that  at  my  first  visit  I 
had  sailed  rather  close  to  the  wind  :  for  when 
the  Major,  like  the  Hatter  in  "Alice,"  pressed  me 
to  take  wine,  I — not  seeing  any — -had  answered 
that  I  did  not  take  it ;  mentally  adding  the 
words,  "  in  your  house,  you  brute  !  " 

The  two  brothers  were  fond  of  each  after  a 
fashioi  Jut  Derrick  was  human,  and  had  his 
faults  like  the  rest  of  us ;  and  I  am  pretty  sure  he 
did  not  much  enjoy  the  sight  of  his  father's  foolish 
and  unreasoning  devotion  to  Lawrence.  If  you 
come  to  think  of  it,  he  would  have  been  a  full- 
fledged  angel  if  no  jealous  pang,  no  reflection 
that  it  was  rather  rough  on  him,  had  crossed  his 
mind,  when  he  saw  his  younger  brother  treated 
with  every  mark  of  respect  and  liking,  and  knew 
that  Lawrence  would  never  stir  a  finger  really 


56  DERIIICK  VAUGIIAN— NOVELIST. 

to  help  the  poor  fractious  invalid.  Unluckily 
they  happened  one  night  to  get  on  the  subject 
of  professions. 

"  It's  a  comfort,"  said  the  Major  in  his  sar- 
castic way,  "  to  have  a  fellow-soldier  to  talk  to 
instead  of  a  quill-driver,  who  as  yet  is  not  even 
a  penny-a-liner.  Eh,  Derrick  ?  Don't  you  feel 
inclined  to  regret  your  fool's  choice  now  ?  You 
might  have  been  starting  off  for  the  war  with 
Lawrence  next  week,  if  you  hadn't  chosen  what 
you're  pleased  to  call  a  literary  life.  Literary 
life,  indeed !  I  little  thought  a  son  of  mine  would 
ever  have  been  so  wanting  in  spirit  as  to  prefer 
dabbling  in  ink  to  a  life  of  action — to  be  the 
scribbler  of  mere  words,  rather  than  an  officer  of 
dragoons." 

Then  to  my  astonishment  Derrick  sprang  to 
his  feet  in  hot  indignation.  I  never  saw  him 
look  so  handsome,  before  or  since  ;  for  his  anger 
was  not  the  distorting  devilish  anger  that  the 
Major  gave  way  to,  but  real  downright  wrath. 

"  You  speak  contemptuously  of  mere  novels," 
he  said  in  a  low  voice,  }'et  more  clearly  than 
usual  and  as  if  the  words  were  wrung  out  of  him. 
"  What  right  have  you  to  look  down  on  one  of 
the  greatest  weapons  of  the  day  ?  and  why  is  a 


DEB  KICK  VA  VG II AX— NO  VELIS  T.  57 

writer  to  submit  to  scoffs  an  insults  and  tamely 
to  hear  his  profession  reviled?  I  have  chosen 
to  write  the  message  that  has  been  given  me, 
and  I  don't  regret  the  choice.  Should  I  have 
shown  greater  spirit  if  I  had  sold  my  freedom 
and  right  of  judgment  to  be  one  of  the  national 
killing  machines  ?  " 

With  that  he  threw  down  his  cards  and  strode 
out  of  the  room  in  a  white  heat  of  anger.  It  was  a 
pity  he  made  that  last  remark,  for  it  put  him  in  the 
wrong  and  needlesssly  annoyed  Lawrence  and  the 
Major.  But  an  angry  man  has  no  time  to  weigh 
his  words,  and,  as  I  said,  poor  old  Derrick  was 
very  human,  and  when  wounded  too  intolerably, 
could  on  occasion  retaliate. 

The  Major  uttered  an  oath  and  looked  in  aston- 
ishment at  the  retreating  figure.  Derrick  was 
such  an  extraordinarily  quiet,  respectful,  long 
suffering  son  as  a  rule,  that  this  outburst  was 
startling  in  the  extreme.  Moreover,  it  spoilt  the 
game,  and  the  old  man,  chafed  by  the  result  of 
his  own  ill-nature,  and  helpless  to  bring  back  his 
partner,  was  forced  to  betake  himself  to  chess. 
T  left  him  grumbling  away  to  Lawrence  about  the 
vanity  of  authors,  and  went  out  in  the  hope  of 
finding  Derrick.  As  I  left  the  house  I  was  some- 


53  DERRICK  VAUGIIAN— NOVELIST. 

one  turn  the  corner  into  the  Circus,  and  starting 
in  pursuit,  overtook  the  tall  dark  figure  where 
Bennett  Street  opens  on  to  the  Lansdowne  Hill. 

"  I'm  glad  you  spoke  up,  old  fellow,"  I  said, 
taking  his  arm. 

lie  modified  his  pace  a  little.  "  Why  is  it," 
he  exclaimed,  "that  every  other  profession  can 
be  taken  seriously,  but  that  a  novelist's  work  is 
supposed  to  be  mere  play  ?  Good  God !  don't 
we  suffer  enough?  Have  we  not  hard  brain 
work  and  drudgery  of  desk  work  and  tedious 
gathering  of  statistics  and  troublesome  search 
into  details?  Have  we  not  an  appalling  weight 
of  responsibility  on  us  ? — and  are  we  not  at  the 
mercy  of  a  thousand  capricious  chances  ?  " 

"Come  now,"  I  exclaimed,  "you  know  that 
you  are  never  so  happy  as  when  you  are  writ- 
ing." 

"Of  course,"  he  replied;  "but  that  doesn't 
make  me  resent  such  an  attack  the  less.  Besides, 
you  don't  know  what  it  is  to  have  to  write  in 
such  an  atmosphere  as  ours;  it's  like  a  weight  on 
one's  pen.  This  life  here  is  not  life  at  all — it's  a 
daily  death,  and  it's  killing  the  book,  too;  the 
last  chapters  are  wretched.  I'm  utterly  dissatis- 
fied with  them." 


DERRICK  VAUG U 'AN— NOVELIST.  59 

"  As  for  that,"  I  said,  calmly,  "  you  are  no  judge 
at  all.  You  never  can  tell  the  worth  of  your  own 
work  ;  the  last  bit  is  splendid." 

"I  could  have  done  it  better,"  he  groaned. 
"  But  there  is  always  a  ghastly  depression  drag- 
ging one  back  here — and  then  the  time  is  so 
short ;  just  as  one  gets  into  the  swing  of  it  the 

breakfast  bell  rings,  and  then  comes "     He 

broke  off. 

I  could  well  supply  the  end  of  the  sentence, 
however,  for  I  knew  that  then  came  the  slow 
torture  of  a  tete-a-tete  with  the  Major,  stinging 
sarcasms,  humiliating  scoldings,  vexations  and 
difficulties  innumerable. 

I  drew  him  to  the  left,  having  no  mind  to  go 
to  the  top  of  the  hill.  We  slackened  our  pace 
again  and  walked  to  and  fro  along  the  broad, 
level  pavement  of  Lansdowne  Crescent.  We  had 
it  entirely  to  ourselves — not  another  creature  was 
in  sight. 

"  I  could  bear  it  all,"  he  burst  forth,  "  if  only 
there  was  a  chance  of  seeing  Freda.  Oh,  you 
are  better  off  than  I  am — at  least  you  know  the 
worst.  Your  hope  is  killed,  but  mine  lives  on  a 
tortured,  starved  life!  Would  to  God  I  had 
never  seen  her ! " 


CO  DERRICK  VAUGII AN— NOVELIST. 

Certainly  before  that  night  I  had  never  quite 
realized  the  irrevocableness  of  poor  Derrick's 
passion.  I  had  half  hoped  that  time  and  separa- 
tion would  gradually  efface  Freda  Merrifield 
from  his  memory  ;  and  I  listened  with  a  dire 
foreboding  to  the  flood  of  wretchedness  which 
he  poured  forth  as  we  paced  up  and  down,  think- 
ing now  and  then  how  little  people  guessed  at 
the  tremendous  powers  hidden  under  his  usually 
quiet  exterior. 

At  length  lie  paused,  but  his  last  heart-broken 
words  seemed  to  vibrate  in  the  air  and  to  force 
me  to  speak  some  kind  of  comfort. 

"  Derrick,"  1  said,  "  come  back  with  me  to 
London — give  up  this  miserable  life." 

I  felt  him  start  a  little  ;  evidently  no  thought 
of  yielding  had  come  to  him  before.  We  were 
passing  the  house  that  used  to  belong  to  that 
strange  book-lover  and  recluse,  Beckford.  I 
looked  up  at  the  blank  windows,  and  thought  of 
that  curious,  self-centred  life  in  the  past,  sur- 
rounded by  every  luxury,  able  to  indulge  every 
whim;  and  then  I  looked  at  my  companion's 
pale,  tortured  face,  and  thought  of  the  life  he  had 
elected  to  lead  in  the  hope  of  saving  one  whom 
duty  bound  him  to  honor.  After  all,  which  life 


LERRICK  VAUGTIAN— NOVELIST.  Gl 

was  the  most  worth  living — which  was  the  most 
to  Le  admired  ? 

We  walked  on :  down  below  us  and  up  on  the 
further  hill  we  could  see  the  lights  of  Bath  ;  the 
place  so  beautiful  by  day  looked  now  like  a  fairy 
city,  and  the  Abbey,  looming  up  against  the 
moon-lit  sky,  seemed  like  some  great  giant  keep- 
ing watch  over  the  clustering  roofs  below.  The 
well-known  chimes  rang  out  into  the  night"  and 
the  clock  struck  ten. 

"  I  must  go  back,"  said  Derrick  quietly.  "  My 
father  will  want  to  get  to  bed." 

I  couldn't  say  a  word  ;  we  turned,  passed  Beck- 
ford's  house  once  more,  walked  briskly  down  the 
hill,  and  reached  the  Gay  Street  lodging-house. 
I  remember  the  stifling  heat  of  the  room  as  we 
entered  it,  and  its  contrast  to  the  cool,  dark,  win- 
ter's night  outside.  I  can  vividly  recall,  too,  the 
old  Major's  face  as  he  looked  up  with  a  sarcastic 
remark,  but  with  a  shade  of  anxiety  in  his  blood- 
shot eyes.  He  was  leaning  back  in  a  green-cush- 
ioned chair,  and  his  ghastly  yellow  complexion 
seemed  to  me  more  noticeable  than  usual — his 
scanty  gray  hair  and  whiskers,  the  lines  of  pain 
so  plainly  visible  in  his  face,  impressed  me  curi- 
ously. I  think  I  had  never  before  realized  what 


C2  DERRICK  VAUGIIAN— NOVELIST. 

a  wreck  of  a  man  he  was — how  utterly  depend- 
ent on  others. 

Lawrence,  who,  to  do  him  justice,  had  a  good 
deal  of  tact,  and  who,  I  believe,  cares  for  his 
brother  as  much  as  ho  was  capable  of  caring  for 
anyone  but  himself,  repeated  a  good  story  with 
which  he  had  been  enlivening  the  Major,  and  I 
did  what  I  could  to  keep  up  the  talk.  Derrick 
meanwhile  put  away  the  chessmen,  and  lighted 
the  Major's  candle.  lie  even  managed  to  force 
up  a  laugh  at  Lawrence's  story,  and,  as  lie  helped 
his  father  out  of  the  room,  I  think  I  was  the 
only  one  who  noticed  the  look  of  tired  endurance 
in  his  eyes. 


DERRICK  V A UG II AN— NOVELIST.  63 


CHAPTER  V. 

"  I  know 

How  far  high  failure  overtops  the  bounds 
Of  low  successes.     Only  suffering  draws 
The  inner  heart  of  song,  and  can  elicit 
The  perfumes  of  the  soul." — Epic  of  Hades. 

NEXT  week,  Lawrence  went  off  like  a  hero  to 
the  war;  and  my  friend — also  I  think  like  a  hero 
— stayed  on  at  Bath,  enduring  as  best  he  could 
the  worst  form  of  loneliness  ;  for  undoubtedly 
there  is  no  loneliness  so  frightful  as  constant 
companionship  with  an  uncongenial  person.  He 
had,  however,  one  consolation  :  the  Major's  health 
steadily  improved,  under  the  joint  influence  of 
total  abstinence  and  Bath  waters,  and,  with  the 
improvement,  his  temper  became  a  little  better. 

But  one  Saturday,  when  I  had  run  down  to 
Bath  without  writing  beforehand,  I  suddenly 
found  a  different  state  of  things.  In  Orange 
Grove  I  met  Dr.  Mackrill,  the  Major's  medical 
man;  he  used  now  and  then  to  play  whist  with 
us  on  Saturday  nights,  and  I  stopped  to  speak  to 
him. 


64  DERRICK-  VAUGIIAN—SOVELIST. 

"  Oh !  you've  come  do\vn  again.  Thai's  all 
right!  "  he  said.  "  Your  friend  wants  some  one 
to  cheer  him  up.  He's  got  his  arm  broken." 

"  How  on  earth  did  he  manage  that  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  Well,  that's  more  than  I  can  tell  you,"  said 
the  doctor,  with  an  odd  look  in  his  eyes,  as  if  lie 
guessed  more  than  he  would  put  into  words. 
"  All  I  can  get  out  of  him  was  that  it  was  done 
accidentally.  The  Major  is  not  so  well — no 
whist  for  us  to-night  I'm  afraid."  He  passed  on, 
and  I  made  my  way  to  Gay  Street.  There  was 
an  air  of  mystery  about  the  quaint  old  landlady ; 
she  looked  brimful  of  news  when  she  opened  the 
door  to  me — but  she  managed  to  "keep  herself 
to  herself,"  and  showed  me  in  upon  the  Major 
and  Derrick,  rather  triumphantly  I  thought. 
The  Major  looked  terribly  ill — worse  than  I  had 
ever  seen  him,  and,  as  for  Derrick,  he  had  the 
strangest  look  of  shrinking  and  shame-facedness 
you  ever  saw.  lie  said  he  was  glad  to  see  me, 
but  I  knew  that  he  lied.  He  would  have  given 
anything  to  have  kept  me  away. 

"  Broken  your  arm  ? "  I  exclaimed,  feeling 
bound  to  take  some  notice  of  the  sling. 

"  Yes,"  he  replied,  "  I  met  with  an  accident  to 
it.  But  luckily  it's  only  the  left  one,  so  it  doesn't 


DERRICK  VAUGHAN— NOVELIST.  65 

hinder  me  much  I  I  have  finished  seven  chapters 
of  the  last  volume  of  '  Lynwood,'  and  was  just 
wanting  to  ask  you  a  legal  question." 

All  this  time  his  eyes  bore  my  scrutiny  defi- 
antly ;  they  seemed  to  dare  me  to  say  one  other 
word  about  the  broken  arm.  I  didn't  dare — in- 
deed to  this  day  I  have  never  mentioned  the 
subject  to  him. 

But  that  evening,  while  he  was  helping  the 
Major  to  bed,  the  old  landlady  made  some  pre- 
text for  toiling  up  to  the  top  of  the  house,  where 
I  sat  smoking  in  Derrick's  room. 

"  You'll  excuse  my  making  bold  to  speak  to 
you,  sir,"  she  said.  I  threw  down  my  newspaper, 
and,  looking  up,  saw  that  she  was  bubbling  over 
with  some  story. 

"  Well?  "  I  said,  encouragingly. 

"  It's  about  Mr.  Vaughan,  sir,  I  wanted  to 
speak  to  you.  I  really  do  think,  sir,  it's  not  safe 
he  should  be  left  aloHe  with  his  father,  sir,  any 
longer.  Such  doings  as  we  had  here  the  other 
day,  sir !  Somehow  or  other — and  none  of  us 
can't  think  how — the  Major  had  managed  to  get 
hold  of  a  bottle  of  brandy.  How  he  had  it  I 
don't  know ;  but  we  none  of  us  suspected  him, 
and  in  the  aftermoon  he  says  he  was  too  poorly 


66          DERRICK  VAUGU AN— NOVELIST. 

to  go  for  a  drive  or  to  go  out  in  his  chair,  and 
settles  off  on  the  parlor  sofa  for  a  nap  while  Mr. 
Vnughan  goes  out  for  a  walk.  Mr.  Vaughun 
was  out  a  couple  of  hours.  I  heard  him  come  in 
and  go  into  the  sitting-room ;  then  there  came 
sounds  of  voices,  and  a  scuffling  of  feet  and 
moving  of  chairs,  and  I  knew  something  was 
wrong  and  hurried  up  to  the  door — and  just  then 
came  a  crash  like  fire-irons,  and  I  could  hear  the 
Major  a-s\vearing  fearful.  Not  hearing  a  sound 
from  Mr.  Vanglian,  I  got  scared,  sir,  and  opened 
the  door,  and  there  I  saw  the  Major  a-leaning  up 
against  the  mantel-piece  as  drunk  as  a  lord,  and 
his  son  seemed  to  have  got  the  bottle  from  him  ; 
it  was  half  empty,  and  when  he  saw  me  lie  just 
handed  it  to  mo  and  ordered  me  to  take  it  away. 
Then  between  us  we  got  the  Major  to  lie  down 
on  the  sofa  and  left  him  there.  "When  we  got 
out  into  the  passage  Mr.  Vaughan  he  leant  against 
the  wall  for  a  minute,  looking  as  white  as  a  sheet, 
and  then  I  noticed  for  the  first  time  that  his  left 
arm  was  hanging  down  at  his  side.  "  Lord  ! 
sir,*'  I  cried,  "  your  arm's  broken."  And  he 
went  all  at  once  as  red  as  he  had  been  pale  just 
before,  and  said  he  had  got  it  done  accidentally, 
and  bade  me  say  nothing  about  it,  and  walked 


DERRICK  VAUGIIAN— NOVELIST.  67 

off  there  and  then  to  the  doctor's,  and  had  it  set. 
But,  sir,  given  a  man  drunk  as  the  Major  was, 
and  given  a  scuffle  to  get  away  the  drink  that 
was  poisoning  him,  and  given  a  crash  such  as  I 
heard,  and  given  a  poker  a-lying  in  the  middle  of 
the  room  where  it  stands  to  reason  no  poker  could 
get  unless  it  was  thrown — whj-,  sir,  no  sensible 
woman  who  can  put  two  and  two  together  can 
doubt  that  it  was  all  the  Major's  doing." 

"  Yes,"  I  said,  "  that  is  clear  enough ;  but  for 
Mr.  Vaughan's  sake  we  must  hush  it  up;  and, 
as  for  safety,  why,  the  Major  is  hardly  strong 
enough  to  do  him  any  worse  damage  than  that." 

The  good  old  thing  wiped  away  a  tear  from 
her  eyes.  She  was  very  fond  of  Derrick,  and  it 
went  to  her  heart  that  he  should  lead  such  a 
dog's  life. 

I  said  what  I  could  to  comfort  her,  and  she 
went  down  again,  fearful  lest  he  should  discover 
her  upstairs  and  guess  that  she  had  opened  her 
heart  to  me. 

Poor  Derrick  !  That  he  of  all  people  on  earth 
should  be  mixed  up  with  sucli  a  police-court 
story — with  drunkards,  and  violence,  and  pokers 
figuring  in  it!  I  lay  back  in  the  carnp-chair  and 
looked  at  Hoffman's  "  Christ,"  and  thought  of 


68  DERRICK  VAUG HAN— NOVELIST. 

all  the  extraordinary  problems  that  one  is  for- 
ever coming  across  in  life.  And  I  wondered 
whether  the  people  of  Bath  who  saw  the  tall, 
impassive-looking,  hazel-eyed  son  and  the  invalid 
father  in  their  daily  pilgrimages  to  the  Pump- 
Room,  or  in  church  on  Sunday,  or  in  the  Park 
on  sunny  afternoons,  had  the  least  notion  of  the 
tragedy  that  was  going  on.  My  reflections  were 
interrupted  by  his  entrance.  He  had  forced  up 
a  cheerfulness  that  I  am  sure  he  didn't  really 
feel,  and  seemed  afraid  of  letting  our  talk  flag 
for  a  moment.  I  remember,  too,  that  for  the 
first  time.he  offered  to  read  me  his  novel,  instead 
of  as  usual  waiting  for  me  to  ask  to  hear  it.  I 
can  see  him  now,  fetching  the  untidy  portfolio 
and  turning  over  the  pages,  adroitly  enough,  as 
though  anxious  to  show  how  immaterial  was  the 
loss  of  a  left  arm.  That  night  I  listened  to  the 
first  half  of  the  third  volume  of  "  Lyn  wood's 
Heritage,"  and  couldn't  help  reflecting  that  its 
author  seemed  to  thrive  on  misery;  and  yet  how 
I  grudged  him  to  this  deadly-lively  place,  and  this 
monotonous,  cooped-up  life. 

"  How  do  you  manage  to  write  one-handed?  " 
I  asked. 

And  he  sat  down  to  his  desk,  put  a  letter- 


DERRICK  VAUGHAN— NOVELIST.  69 

weight  on  the  left-hand  corner  of  the  sheet  of 
foolscap,  and  wrote  that  comical  first  paragraph 
of  the  eighth  chapter  over  which  we  have  all 
laughed.  I  suppose  few  readers  guessed  the 
author's  state  of  mind  when  he  wrote  it.  I 
looked  over  his  shoulder  to  see  what  he  had 
written,  and  couldn't  help  laughing  aloud, — I 
verily  believe  that  it  was  his  way  of  turning  off 
attention  from  his  arm,  and  leading  me  safely 
from  the  region  of  awkward  questions. 

."  By-the-bye,"  I  exclaimed,  "  your  writing  of 
garden-parties  reminds  me.  I  went  to  one  at 
Campden  Hill  the  other  day,  and  had  the  good 
fortune  to  meet  Miss  Freda  Merrifield." 

How  his  face  lighted  up,  poor  fellow,  and  what 
a  flood  of  questions  he  poured  out.  "  She  looked 
very  well  and  very  pretty,"  I  replied.  "  I 
played  two  sets  of  tennis  with  her.  She  asked 
after  you  directly  she  saw  me,  seeming  to  think 
that  we  always  hunted  in  couples.  I  told  her 
you  were  living  here,  taking  care  of  an  invalid 
father ;  but  just  then  up  came  the  others  to  ar- 
range the  game.  She  and  I  got  the  best  courts, 
and  as  we  crossed  over  to  them  she  told  me  she 
had  me  your  brother  several  times  last  autumn, 
when  she  had  been  staying  near  Aldershot. 


70  DERRICK  VAVGHAN— NOVELIST. 

Odd  that  he  never  mentioned  her  here  ;  but  I 
don't  suppose  she  made  much  impression  on  him. 
She  is  not  at  all  his  style." 

"Did  you  have  much  more  talk  with  her?" 
he  asked. 

"  No,  nothing  to  be  called  talk.  She  told  me 
they  were  leaving  London  next  week,  and  she 
was  longing  to  get  back  to  the  country  to  her 
beloved  animals — rabbits,  poultry,  an  aviary,  and 
ail  that  kind  of  thing.  I  should  gather  that  they 
had  kept  her  rather  in  the  background  this  sea- 
son, but  I  understand  that  the  eldest  sister  is  to 
be  married  in  the  winter,  and  then  no  doubt 
Miss  Freda  will  be  brought  forward." 

He  seemed  wonderfully  cheered  by  this  oppor- 
tune meeting,  and  though  there  was  so  little  to 
tell  he  appeared  to  be  quite  content.  I  left  him 
on  Monday  in  fairly  good  "spirits,  and  did  not 
come  across  him  again  till  September,  when  his 
arm  was  well,  and  his  novel  finished  and  revised. 
He  never  made  two  copies  of  his  work,  and  I 
fancy  this  was  perhaps  because  he  spent  so  short 
a  time  each  day  in  actual  writing,  and  lived  so 
continually  in  his  work ;  moreover,  as  I  said 
before,  he  detested  penmanship. 

The  last  part  of  *  Lynwood '  far  exceeded  my 


DEEIUCK  VAUGIIAN— NOVELIST.  71 

expectations  ;  perhaps — yet  I  don't  really  think 
so — I  viewed  it  too  favorably.  But  I  owed  the 
book  a  debt  of  gratitude, since  it  certainly  helped 
me  through  the  worst  part  of  my  life. 

"  Don't  you  feel  flat  now  it  is  finished  ? "  I 
asked. 

"  I  felt  so  miserable  that  I  had  to  plunge  into 
another  story  three  da}-s  after,"  he  replied ;  and 
then  and  there  he  gave  me  the  sketch  of  his  sec- 
ond novel,  "  At  Strife,"  and  told  me  how  he  meant 
to  weave  in  his  childish  fancies  about  the  defense 
of  the  bridge  in  the  Civil  Wars. 

"  And  about '  Lynwood  '  ?  Are  you  coming 
up  to  town  to  hawk  him  round  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  I  can't  do  that,"  he  said  ;  "  you  see  I  am  tied 
here.  No,  I  must  send  him  off  by  rail,  and  let 
him  take  his  chance." 

"No  such  thing?"  I  cried.  "If  you  can't 
leavs  Bath  I  will  take  him  round  for  you." 

And  Derrick,  who  with  the  oddest  inconsis- 
tency would  let  his  MS.  lie  about  anyhow  at 
home,  but  hated  the  thought  of  sending  it  out 
alone  on  its  travels,  gladly  accepted  my  offer. 
So  next  week  I  set  off  with  the  huge  brown- 
paper  parcel ;  few.  however,  will  appreciate  my 
good  nature,  for  no  one  but  an  author  or  a  pub- 


72  DERRICK  VAUGHAN-NOVELIST. 

lisher  knows  the  fearful  weight  of  a  three-volume 
novel  in  MS. !  To  my  intense  satisfaction  I  soon 
got  rid  of  it,  for  the  first  good  firm  to  which  I 
took  it  received  it  with  great  politeness,  to  be 
handed  over  to  their  "reader"  for  an  opinion; 
and  apparently  the  "reader's  "  opinion  coincided 
with  mine,  for  a  month  later  Derrick  received 
an  offer  for  it  with  which  he  at  once  closed — 
not  because  it  was  a  good  one,  but  because  the 
firm  was  well  thought  of,  and  because  he  wished 
to  lose  no  time,  but  to  have  the  book  published 
at  once.  I  happened  to  be  there  when  his  first 
"  proofs  "  arrived.  The  Major  had  had  an  attack 
of  jaundice,  and  was  in  a  fiendish  humor.  We 
had  a  miserable  time  of  it  at  dinner,  for  he  b.vl- 
gered  Derrick  almost  past  bearing,  and  I  think 
the  poor  old  fellow  minded  it  more  when  there 
was  a  third  person  present.  Somehow,  through 
all,  he  managed  to  keep  his  extraordinary  capac- 
ity for  reverencing  mere  age — even  this  de- 
graded and  detestable  old  age  of  the  Major's.  I 
often  thought  that  in  this  he  was  like  my  own 
ancestor,  Hugo  Wharncliffe,  whose  deference 
and  respectfulnesss  and  patience  had  not  de- 
scended to  me,  while  unfortunately  the  effects  of 
his  physical  infirmities  had.  I  sometimes  used 


DERRICK  VAUGUAN— NOVELIST.  73 

to  reflect  bitterly  enough  on  the  truth  of  Her- 
bert Spencer's  teaching  as  to  heredity,  so  clearly 
shown  in  my  own  case.  In  the  year  1683,  through 
the  abominable  cruelty  and  harshness  of  his 
brother  Randolph,  tiiis  Hugo  Wharncliffe,  my 
great-great-great-great-great  grandfather,  was  im- 
mured in  Newgate,  and  his  constitution  was 
thereby  so  much  impaired  and  enfeebled  that, 
two  hundred  years  after,  my  constitution  is  pay- 
ing the  penalty,  and  my  whole  life  is  thereby 
changed  and  thwarted.  Hence  this  childless 
Randolph  is  affecting  the  course  of  several  lives 
in  the  19th  century  to  their  grievous  hurt. 

But  revenons  a  nos  moutons — that  is  to  say, 
to  our  lion  and  lamb — the  old  brute  of  a  Major 
and  his  long-suffering  son. 

While  the  table  was  being  cleared,  the  Major 
took  forty  winks  on  the  sofa,  and  we  two  beat  a 
retreat,  lit  up  our  pipes  in  the  passage,  and  were 
just  turning  out  when  the  postman's  double 
knock  came,  but  no  shower  of  letters  in  the 
box.  Derrick  threw  open  the  door,  and  the  man 
handed  him  a  fat  stumpy-looking  roll  in  a  pink 
wrapper. 

"I  say  !"  he  exclaimed,  "proofs!" 

And,  in  hot  haste,  he  began  tearing  away  the 


74  DERRICK  VAUG1IAN— NOVELIST. 

pink  paper,  till  out  came  the  clean  folded  bits  of 
printing  and  the  dirty  and  dishevelled  blue  fool- 
scap, the  look  of  which  I  knew  so  well.  It  is  an 
odd  feeling,  that  first  seeing  oneself  in  print,  and 
I  could  guess,  even  then,  what  a  thrill  shot 
through  Derrick  as  he  turned  over  the  pages. 
But  he  would  not  take  them  into  the  sitting-room, 
no  doubt  dreading  another  diatribe  against  his 
profession ;  and  we  solemnly  played  euchre,  and 
patiently  endured  the  Majors  withering  sarcasms 
till  ten  o'clock  sounded  our  happy  release. 

However,  to  make  a  long  story  short,  a  month 
later — that  is,  at  the  end  of  November — '  Lyn- 
wood's  Heritage  '  was  published,  in  three  vol- 
umes with  maroon  cloth  and  gilt  lettering. 
Derrick  had  distributed  among  his  friends  the 
publishers'  announcement  of  the  day  of  publica- 
tion ;  and  when  it  was  out  I  besieged  the  lib- 
raries for  it,  always  expressing  surprise  if  I  did 
not  find  it  in  their  lists.  Then  began  the  time 
of  reviews.  As  I  had  expected,  they  were  ex- 
tremely favorable,  with  the  exception  of  The 
Herald,  The  Stroller,  and  The  Hour,  which  made 
it  rather  hot  for  him,  the  latter  in  particular 
pitching  into  his  views  and  assuring  its  readers 
that  the  book  was  "  dangerous,"  and  its  author  a 


DERRICK  VAUGHAN— NOVELIST.  75 

believer  in — various  things  especially  repugnant 
to  Derrick,  as  it  happened. 

I  was  with  him  when  he  read  these  reviews. 
Over  the  cleverness  of  the  satirical  attack  in  The 
Weekly  Herald  he  laughed  heartily,  though  the 
laugh  was  against  himself ;  and  as  to  the  critic 
who  wrote  in  The  Stroller,  it  was  apparent  to  all 
who  knew  '  Lynwood  '  that  he  had  not  read  much 
of  the  book ;  but  over  this  review  in  The  Hour 
he  was  genuinely  angry — it  hurt  him  personally, 
and,  as  it  afterwards  turned  out,  played  no 
small  part  in  the  story  of  his  life.  The  good 
reviews,  however,  were  many  and  their  recom- 
mendation of  the  book  hearty  ;  they  all  prophesied 
that  it  would  be  a  great  success.  Yet,  spite  of 
this,  *  Lyn wood's  Heritage'  didn't  sell.  Was  it, 
as  I  had  feared,  that  Derrick  was  too  devoid  of 
the  pushing  faculty  ever  to  make  a  successful 
writer?  Or  was  it  that  he  was  handicapped  by 
being  down  in  the  provinces  playing  keeper  to 
that  abominable  old  bear  ?  Anyhow,  the  book 
was  well  received,  read  with  enthusiasm  by  an 
extremely  small  circle,  and  then  it  dropped  down 
to  the  bottom  among  the  mass  of  overlooked 
literature,  and  its  career  seemed  to  be  over.  I 
can  recall  the  look  in  Derrick's  face  when  one 


76  DERRICK  VAUGHAN— NOVELIST. 

day  he  glanced  through  the  new  Mudie  and 
Smith  lists  and  found  4  Lyn  wood's  Heritage '  no 
longer  down.  I  had  been  trying  to  cheer  him 
up  about  the  book  and  quoting  all  the  favorable 
remarks  I  had  heard  about  it.  But  unluckily  this 
vas  damning  evidence  against  my  optimist  view. 

He  sighed  heavily  and  put  down  the  lists. 

"  It's  no  use  to  deceive  oneself,"  he  said 
drearily,  "'Lyn  wood'  has  failed." 

Something  in  the  deep  depression  of  look  and 
tone  gave  me  a  momentary  insight  into  the 
author's  heart.  He  thought,  I  know,  of  the 
agony  of  mind  this  book  had  cost  him ;  of  those 
long  months  of  waiting  and  their  deadly  struggle, 
Of  the  hopes  which  had  made  all  he  passed 
through  seem  so  well  worth  while  ;  and  the 
bitterness  of  the  disappointment  was  no  doubt 
intensified  by  the  knowledge  that  the  Major 
would  rejoice  over  it. 

We  -walked  that  afternoon  along  the  Bradford 
Valley,  a  road  which  Derrick  was  specially  fond 
of.  He  loved  the  thickly-wooded  hills,  and  the 
glimpses  of  the  Avon  which,  flanked  by  the  canal 
and  the  railway,  runs  parallel  with  the  high 
road ;  he  always  admired,  too,  a  certain  little 
village  with  gray  stone  cottages  which  lay  in 


DERRICK  VAUGIIAN— NOVELIST  11 

this  direction,  and  liked  to  look  at  the  site  of  the 
old  hall  near  the  road:  nothing  remained  of  it 
but  the  tall  gate  posts,  and  rusty  iron  gates  look- 
ing strangely  dreary  and  deserted,  and  within 
one  could  see,  between  some  dark  yew  trees,  an 
old  terrace  walk  with  stone  steps  and  balus- 
trades— the  most  ghostly-looking  place  you  can 
conceive. 

"  I  know  you'll  put  this  into  a  book  some 
day,"  I  said,  laughing. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  it  is  already  beginning  to 
simmer  in  my  brain."  Apparently  his  deep  dis- 
appointment as  to  his  first  venture  had  in  no  way 
affected  his  perfectly  clear  consciousness  that, 
come  what  would,  he  had  to  write. 

As  we  walked  back  to  Bath  he  told  me  his 
'Ruined  Hall'  story  as  far  as  it  had  yet  evolved 
itself  in  his  bruin,  and  we  were  still  discussing 
it  when  in  Milsom  Street  we  met  a  boy  crying 
evening  papers,  and  details  of  the  last  great 
battle  at  Saspataras  Hill. 

Derrick  broke  off  hastily,  everything  but 
anxiety  for  Lawrence  driven  from  his  mind. 


18  DERRICK  VAUGHAN— NOVELIST. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

"Say  not,  O  Soul,  thou  art  defeated, 

Because  thou  art  distiest  ; 
If  thou  of  better  things  art  cheated, 
Thou  canst  not  be  of  best."— T.  T.  LYNCH, 

"  GOOD  Heavens,  Sydney  ! "  lie  exclaimed  in 
great  excitement  and  with  his  whole  face  aglow 
with  pleasure,  "  look  here !  " 

He  pointed  to  a  few  lines  in  the  paper  which 
mentioned  the  heroic  conduct  of  Lieutenant  L. 
Vaughan,  who  at  the  risk  of  his  life  had  rescued 
a  brother  officer  when  surrounded  by  the  enemy 
and  completely  disabled.  Lieutenant  Vaughan 
had  managed  to  mount  the  wounded  man  on  his 
own  horse  and  had  miraculously  escaped  himself 
with  nothing  worse  than  a  sword-thrust  in  the 
left  arm. 

We  went  home  in  triumph  to  the  Major,  and 
Derrick  read  the  whole  account  aloud.  With 
all  his  detestation  of  war,  he  was  nevertheless 
greatly  stirred  by  the  description  of  the  gallant 
defence  of  the  attacked  position— and  for  a  time 
we  were  all  at  one,  and  could  talk  of  nothing 


DEREICK  VAUG HAN— NOVELIST.  79 

but  Lawrence's  heroism,  and  Victoria  crosses,  and 
the  prospects  of  peace.  However,  all  too  soon, 
the  Major's  fiendish  temper  returned,  and  he 
began  to  use  the  event  of  the  day  as  a  weapon 
against  Derrick,  continally  taunting  him  with 
the  contrast  between  his  stay-at-home  life  of 
scribbling  and  Lawrence's  life  of  heroic  adven- 
ture. I  could  never  make  out  whether  he  wanted 
to  goad  his  son  into  leaving  him,  in  order  that 
lie  might  driak  himself  to  death  in  peace,  or 
whether  he  merely  indulged  in  his  natural  love 
of  tormenting,  valuing  Derrick's  devotion  as  con- 
ducive to  his  own  comfort,  and  knowing  that 
hard  words  would  not  drive  him  from  what  he 
deemed  his  duty.  I  rather  incline  to  the  latter 
view,  but  the  old  Major  was  always  an  enigma 
to  me  ;  nor  can  I  to  this  day  make  out  his  raison- 
cTetre,  except  on  the  theory  that  the  training  of 
a  novelist  required  a  course  of  slow  torture,  and 
that  the  old  man  was  sent  into  the  world  to  be  a 
sort  of  thorn  in  the  flesh  to  Derrick. 

What  with  the  disappontment  about  his  first 
book,  and  the  difficulty  of  writing  his  second, 
the  fierce  craving  for  Freda's  presence,  the 
struggle  not  to  allow  his  admiration  for  Law- 
rence's bravery  to  become  poisoned  by  envy  under 


80  DERRICK  VAUG11AN— NOVELIST. 

the  influence  of  the  Major's  incessant  attacks, 
Derrick  had  just  then  a  hard  time  of  it.  lie 
never  complained,  but  I  noticed  a  great  change 
in  him ;  his  melancholy  increased,  his  flashes  of 
humor  and  merriment  became  fewer  and  fewer — 
I  began  to  be  afraid  that  he  would  break  down. 

"  For  God's  sake  ! "  I  exclaimed  one  evening 
when  left  alone  with  the  Doctor  after  an  even- 
ing of  whist,  "do  order  the  Major  to  London. 
Derrick  has  been  mewed  up  here  with  him  for 
nearly  two  3Tears,  ?nd  I  don't  think  he  can  stand 
it  mucli  longer." 

So  the  Doctor  kindly  contrived  to  advise  the 
Major  to  consult  a  well-known  London  physician 
and  to  spend  a  fortnight  in  town,  further  sug- 
gesting that  a  month  at  Ben  Rhydding  might  be 
enjoyable  before  settling  down  at  Bath  again  for 
the  winter.  Luckily  the  Major  took  to  the  idea, 
and  just  as  Lawrence  returned  from  the  war 
Derrick  and  his  father  arrived  in  town.  The 
change  seemed  likely  to  work  well,  and  I  was 
able  now  and  then  to  release  my  friend  and  play 
cribbage  with  the  old  man  for  an  hour  or  two 
while  Derrick  tore  about  London,  interviewed 
Ilia  publisher,  made  researches  into  seventeenth 
century  documents  at  the  British  Museum,  and 


DERRICK  VAUGBAN— NOVELIST.  81 

somehow  managed  in  his  rapid  way  to  acquire 
those  glimpses  of  life  and  character  which  he 
afterwards  turned  to  such  good  account.  All 
was  grist  that  came  to  his  mill,  and  at  first  the 
mere  sight  of  his  old  home,  London,  seemed  to 
revive  him.  Of  course  at  the  very  first  oppor- 
tunity he  called  at  the  Probyns,  and  we  both  of 
us  had  an  invitation  to  go  there  on  the  following 
Wednesday  to  see  the  march-past  of  the  troops 
and  to  lunch.  Derrick  was  nearly  beside  him- 
self at  the  prospect,  for  he  knew  that  he  should 
certainly  meet  Freda  at  last,  and  the  mingled 
pain  and  bliss  of  being  actually  in  the  same 
place  with  her,  yet  as  completely  separated  as  if 
seas  rolled  between  them,  was  beginning  to  try 
him  terribly. 

Meantime  Lawrence  turned  up  again,  greatly 
improved  in  every  way  by  all  that  he  had  lived 
through,  but  rather  too  ready  to  fall  in  with  his 
father's  tone  towards  Derrick.  The  relations 
between  the  two  brothers — always  a  little  peculiar 
— became  more  and  more  difficult,  and  the  Major 
seemed  to  enjoy  pitting  them  against  each  other. 

At  length  the  day  of  the  review  arrived. 
Derrick  was  not  looking  well,  his  eyes  were 

heavy  with  sleeplessness,  and  the   Major  had 

G 


82  DERRICK  VAUGIIAN— NOVELIST. 

been  unusually  exasperating  at  breakfast  that 
morning,  so  that  he  started  with  a  jaded,  worn- 
out  feeling  that  would  not  wholly  yield  even  to 
the  excitement  of  this  long-expected  meeting 
with  Freda.  When  he  found  himself  in  the 
great  drawing-room  at  Lord  Probyn's  house, 
amid  a  buzz  of  talk  and  a  crowd  of  strange  faces, 
he  was  seized  with  one  of  those  sudden  attacks 
of  shyness  to  which  he  was  always  liable.  In 
fact,  he  had  been  so  long  alone  with  the  old 
Major  that  this  plunge  into  society  was  too  great 
a  reaction,  and  the  very  thing  he  had  so  longed 
for  became  a  torture  to  him. 

Freda  was  at  the  other  end  of  the  room  talk- 
ing to  Keith  Collins,  the  well-known  member 
for  Codrington,  whose  curious  but  attractive 
face  was  known  to  all  the  world  through  the 
caricatures  of  it  in  *  Punch.'  I  knew  that  she 
saw  Derrick,  and  that  he  instantly  perceived 
her  and  that  a  miserable  sense  of  separation,  of 
distance,  of  hopelessness  overwhelmed  him  us  he 
looked.  After  all,  it  was  natural  enough.  For 
two  years  he  had  thought  of  Freda  night  and 
day  ;  in  his  unutterably  dreary  life  her  memory 
had  been  his  refreshment,  his  solace,  his  com- 
panion. Now  he  was  suddenly  brought  face  to 


DERRICK  VAUGUAN— NOVELIST.  83 

face,  not  with  the  Freda  of  his  dreams,  but  with 
a  fashionable,  beautifully  dressed,  much-sought 
girl,  and  he  felt  that  a  gulf  lay  between  them ;  it 
was  the  gulf  of  experience.  Freda's  life  in 
society,  the  whirl  of  gayety,  the  excitement  and 
success  which  she  had  been  enjoying  throughout 
the  season,  and  his  miserable  monotony  of  com- 
panionship with  his  invalid  father,  of  hard  work 
and  weary  disappointment,  had  broken  down 
the  bond  of  union  that  had  once  existed  be- 
tween them.  From  either  side  they  looked  at 
each  other — Freda  with  a  wondering  perplexity, 
Derrick  with  a  dull  grinding  pain  at  his  heart. 

Of  course  they  spoke  to  each  other ;  but  I  fancy 
the  merest  platitudes  passed  between  them. 
Somehow  they  had  lost  touch  and  a  crowded 
London  drawing-room  was  hardly  the  place  to 
regain  it. 

"  So  your  novel  is  really  out,"  I  heard  her  say 
to  him  in  that  deep,  clear  voice  of  hers.  "  I  like 
the  design  on  the  cover." 

"  Oh,  have  you  read  the  book  ?  "  said  Derrick 
coloring. 

"  Well,  no,"  she  said,  truthfully.  "  I  wanted 
to  read  it,  but  my  father  wouldn't  let  me — he  is 
very  particular  about  what  we  read." 


84  DERRICK  VAUGHAN— NOVELIST. 

That  frank  but  not  very  happily  worded  an- 
swer was  like  a  stab  to  poor  Derrick.  He  had 
given  to  the  world,  then  a  book  that  was  not  fit 
for  her  to  read.  This  '  Lynwood,'  which  had 
been  written  with  his  own  heart's  blood,  was 
counted  a  dangerous,  poisonous  thing,  from  which 
she  must  be  guarded ! 

Freda  must  have  seen  that  she  had  hurt  him, 
for  she  tried  hard  to  retrieve  her  words. 

"  It  was  tantalizing  to  have  it  actually  in  the 
house,  wasn't  it  ?  I  have  a  grudge  against  The 
Hour,  for  it  was  the  review  in  that  which  set  my 
father  against  it."  Then,  rather  anxious  to  leave 
the  difficult  subject — "And  has  your  brother 
quite  recovered  from  his  wound  ?  " 

I  think  she  was  a  little  vexed  that  Derrick  did 
not  show  more  animation  in  his  replies  about 
Lawrence's  adventures  during  the  war  ;  the  less 
he  responded  the  more  enthusiastic  she  became, 
and  I  am  perfectly  sure  that  in  her  heart  she  was 
thinking — 

"  He  is  jealous  of  his  brother's  fame — I  am  dis- 
appointed in  him.  He  has  grown  dull,  and  absent, 
and  stupid,  and  he  is  dreadfully  wanting  in  small- 
talk.  I  fear  that  his  life  down  in  the  provinces 
is  turning  him  into  a  bear." 


DERRICK  VAUG II AN— NOVELIST.  85 

She  brought  the  conversation  back  to  his  book  ; 
but  there  was  a  little  touch  of  scorn  in  her  voice, 
as  if  she  thought  to  herself,  "I  suppose  he  is  one 
of  those  people  who  can  only  talk  on  one  subject 
— his  own  doings."  Her  manner  was  almost 
brusque. 

"  Your  novel  has  had  a  great  success,  has  it 
not  ?  "  she  asked. 

He  instantly  perceived  her  thought,  and  replied 
with  a  touch  of  dignity  and  a  proud  smile — 

"  On  the  contrary,  it  has  been  a  great  failure ; 
only  three  hundred  and  nine  copies  have  been 
sold.". 

"  I  wonder  at  that,"  said  Freda,  "  for  one  eo 
often  hears  it  talked  of." 

He  promptly  changed  the  topic,  and  began  to 
speak  of  the  march  past.  "  I  want  to  see  Lord 
Starcross,"  he  added.  "  I  have  no  idea  what  a 
hero  is  like." 

Just  then  Lady  Probyn  came  up,  followed  by 
an  elderly  harpy  in  spectacles  and  false,  much- 
frizzed  fringe. 

';  Mrs.  Carsteen  wishes  to  be  introduced  to  you, 
Mr.  Vaughan;  she  is  a  great  admirer  of  your 
writings." 

And  poor  Derrick,  who  was  then  quite  unused 


86  DERRICK  VAUGHAN— NOVELIST. 

to  the  species,  had  to  stand  and  receive  a  flood 
of  the  most  fulsome  flattery,  delivered  in  a 
strident  voice,  and  to  bear  the  critical  and  pro- 
longed stare  of  the  spectacled  eyes.  Nor  would 
the  harpy  easily  release  her  prey.  She  kept  him 
much  against  his  will,  and  I  saw  him  looking 
wistfully  now  and  then  towards  Freda. 

"  It  amuses  me,"  I  said  to  her,  "  that  Derrick 
Vaughan  should  be  so  anxious  to  see  Lord  Star- 
cross.  It  reminds  me  of  Charles  Lamb's  anxiety 
to  see  Kosciusko,  '  for,'  said  he,  '  1  have  never 
seen  a  hero ;  I  wonder  how  they  look,'  while  all 
the  time  he  himself  was  living  a  life  of  heroic 
self-sacrifice." 

"  Mr.  Vaughan,  I  should  think,  need  only  look 
at  his  own  brother,"  said  Freda,  missing  the  drift 
of  my  speech. 

I  longed  to  tell  her  what  it  was  possible  to  tell 
of  Derrick's  life,  but  at  that  moment  Sir  Richard 
Merrifield  introduced  to  his  daughter  a  girl  in  a 
huge  hat  and  great  flopping  sleeves,  Miss  Isaacson, 
whose  picture  at  the  Grosvenor  had  been  so  much 
talked  of.  Now  the  little  artist  knew  no  one  in 
the  room,  and  Freda  saw  fit  to  be  extremely 
friendly  to  her.  She  was  introduced  to  me,  and 
I  did  my  best  to  talk  to  her  and  set  Freda  at 


DERRICK  VAUGHAN— NOVELIST.  87 

liberty  as  soon  as  the  harpy  had  released  Derrick ; 
but  my  endeavors  were  frustrated,  for  Miss 
Isaacson,  having  looked  me  well  over,  decided 
that  I  was  not  at  all  intense,  but  a  mere  common- 
place, slightly  cynical  worldling,  and  having 
exchanged  a  few  lukewarm  remarks  with  me, 
she  returned  to  Freda,  and  stuck  to  her  like  a 
bur  for  the  rest  of  the  time. 

We  stood  out  on  the  balcony  to  see  the  troops 
go  by.  It  was  a  fine  sight,  and  we  all  became 
highly  enthusiastic.  Freda  enjoyed  the  mere 
pageant  like  a  child,  and  was  delighted  with  the 
horses.  She  looked  now  more  like  the  Freda  of 
the  yacht,  and  I  wished  that  Derrick  could  be 
near  her ;  but,  as  ill-luck  would  have  it,  he  was 
at  some  distance,  hemmed  in  by  an  impassable 
barrier  of  eager  spectators. 

Lawrence  Vaughan  rode  past,  looking  wonder- 
fully well  in  his  uniform.  He  was  riding  a 
spirited  bay,  which  took  Freda's  fancy  amazingly, 
though  she  reserved  her  chief  enthusiasm  for  Lord 
Starcross  and  his  steed.  It  was  not  until  all  was 
over  and  we  had  returned  to  the  drawing-room, 
that  Derrick  managed  to  get  the  talk  with 
Freda  for  which  I  knew  he  was  longing,  and 
then  they  were  fated,  apparently,  to  disagree.  I 


88          DERRICK  VAUGH AN— NOVELIST. 

was  standing  near  and  overheard  the  close  of  their 
talk. 

"I  do  believe  you  must  be  a  member  of  the  Peace 
Society !  "  said  Freda  impatiently.  "  Or  perhaps 
you  have  turned  Quaker.  But  I  want  to  in- 
troduce you  to  my  godfather,  Mr.  Fleming;  you 
know  it  was  his  son  whom  your  brother  saved." 

And  I  heard  Derrick  being  introduced  as  the 
brother  of  the  hero  of  Saspataras  Hill ;  and  the 
next  day  he  received  a  card  for  one  of  Mrs. 
Fleming's  receptions,  Lawrence  having  previously 
been  invited  to  dine  there  on  the  same  night. 

What  happened  at  that  party  I  never  exactly 
understood.  All  I  could  gather  was  that  Law- 
rence had  been  tremendously  feted,  that  Freda 
had  been  present,  and  that  poor  old  Derrick  was 
as  miserable  as  he  could  be  when  I  next  saw  him. 
Putting  two  and  to  together,  I  guessed  that  he  had 
been  tantalized  by  a  mere  sight  of  her,  possibly 
tortured  by  watching  more  favored  men  enjoying 
long  tete-a-tetes  ;  but  he  would  say  little  or  noth- 
ing about  it,  and  when,  soon  after,  he  and  the 
Major  left  London,  I  feared  that  the  fortnight  had 
done  my  friend  harm  instead  of  good. 


DERRICK  VAUGH AN— NOVELIST.  89 


CHAPTER  VII. 

11  Then  in  that  hour  rejoice,  since  only  thus 
Can  thy  proud  heart  grow  wholly  piteous. 
Thus  only  to  the  world  thy  speech  can  flow 
Charged  with  the  sad  authority  of  woe.  . 

Since  no  man  nurtured  in  the  shade  can  sing 
To  a  true  note  one  psalm  of  conquering; 
Warriors  must  chant  it  whom  our  own  eyes  see 
Red  from  the  battle  and  more  bruised  than  we, 
Men  who  have  borne  the  worst,  have  known  the  whole, 
Have  felt  the  last  abeyance  of  the  soul." 

F.  W.  H.  MYERS. 

ABOUT  the  beginning  of  August  I  rejoined 
him  at  Ben  Rhydding.  The  place  suited  the 
Major  admirably,  and  his  various  baths  took  up 
so  great  a  part  of  each  day,  that  Derrick  had 
more  time  to  himself  than  usual,  and  "  At  Strife  " 
got  on  rapidly.  He  much  enjoyed,  too,  the 
beautiful  country  round,  while  the  hotel  itself, 
with  its  huge  gathering  of  all  sorts  and  condi- 
tions of  people,  afforded  him  endless  studies  of 
character.  The  Major  breakfasted  in  his  own 
room,  and,  being  so  much  engrossed  with  his 
baths,  did  not  generally  appear  till  twelve.  Der- 
rick and  I  breakfasted  in  the  great  dining-hall ; 


90  DERRICK  VAUGUAN— NOVELIST. 

and  one  morning,  when  the  meal  was  over,  we 
as  usual,  strolled  into  the  drawing-room  to  see  if 
there  were  any  letters  awaiting  us. 

"  One  for  you,"  I  remarked,  handing  him  a 
thick  envelope. 

"  From  Lawrence ! "  he  exclaimed. 

"  Well,  don't  read  it  in  here  ;  the  doctor  will 
be  coming  to  read  prayers.  Come  out  in  the 
garden,"  I  said. 

We  went  out  into  the  beautiful  grounds,  and 
he  tore  open  the  envelope  and  began  to  read  his 
letter  as  we  walked.  All  at  once  I  felt  the  arm 
which  was  linked  in  mine  give  a  quick  involun- 
tary movement,  and,  looking  up,  saw  that  Der- 
rick had  turned  deadly  .pale. 

"  What's  up?  "  I  said.  But  he  read  on  with- 
out replying;  and,  when  I  paused  and  sat  down 
on  a  sheltered  rustic  seat,  he  unconsciously  fol- 
lowed my  example,  looking  more  like  a  sleep- 
walker than  a  man  in  the  possession  of  all  his 
faculties..  At  last  he  finished  the  letter,  and 
looked  up  in  a  dazed,  miserable  way,  letting  his 
.eyes  wander  over  the  fir-trees  and  the  fragrant 
shrubs  and  the  flowers  by  the  path. 

"Dear  old  fellow,  what  is  the  matter?"  I 
asked. 


DERRICK  VAUGHAN -NOVELIST.  91 

•  The  words  seemed  to  rouse  him. 

A  dreadful  look  passed  over  his  face — the  look 
of  one  stricken  to  the  heart.  But  his  voice  was 
perfectly  calm,  and  full  of  a  ghastly  self-control. 

"  Freda  will  be  my  sister-in-law,"  he  said, 
rather  as  if  stating  the  fact  to  himself  than  an- 
swering my  question. 

"  Impossible  !  "  I  said.  "  What  do  you  mean  ? 
How  could- " 

As  if  to  silence  me  he  thrust  the  letter  into 
my  hand.  It  ran  as  follows : 

"DEAR  DERRICK,—  For  the  last  few  days  I  have  been 
down  at  the  Flemings'  place  in  Derbyshire,  and  fortune  has 
favored  me,  for  the  Merrifields  are  here  too.  Now  prepare 
yourself  for  a  surprise.  Break  the  news  to  the  governor, 
and  send  rae  your  heartiest  congratulations  by  return  of  post. 
1  am  engaged  to  Freda  Merrifield,  and  am  the  happiest  fel- 
low in  the  world.  They  are  awfully  fastidious  sort  of  people, 
and  I  do  not  believe  Sir  Richard  would  have  consented  to 
such  a  match  had  it  not  been  for  that  lucky  impulse  which 
made  me  rescue  Dick  Fleming.  It  has  all  been  arranged 
very  quickly,  as  these  things  should  be,  but  we  have  seen  a 
good  deal  of  each  other — first  at  Aldershot  the  year  before 
last,  and  just  lately  in  town,  and  now  these  four  days  down 
here — and  ciays  in  a  country  house  are  equal  to  weeks  else- 
where. I  enclose  a  letter  to  my  father — give  it  to  him  at  a 
suitable  moment — but,  after  all,  he  is  sure  to  approve  of  a 
daughter-in-law  with  such  a  dowry  as  Miss  Merrifield  is 
likely  to  have. 

"  Tours,  affly, 

"  LAWRENCE  VAUGHAN." 

I  gave  him  back  the  letter   without  a  word. 


92  DERRICK  VAUGHAN— NOVELIST. 

In  dead  silence  we  moved  on,  took  a  turning 
which  led  to  a  little  narrow  gate,  and  passed  out 
of  the  grounds  to  the  wild  moorland  country  be- 
yond. 

After  all,  Freda  was  in  no  way  to  blame.  As 
a  mere  girl  she  had  allowed  Derrick  to  see  that 
she  cared  for  him  ;  then  circumstances  had  en- 
tirely separated  them;  she  saw  more  of  the 
world,  met  Lawrence,  was  perhaps  first  attracted 
to  him  by  his  very  likeness  to  Derrick,  and 
finally  fell  in  love  with  the  hero  of  the  season, 
whom  every  one  delighted  to  honor.  Nor  could 
one  blame  Lawrence,  who  had  no  notion  that  he 
had  supplanted  his  brother.  All  the  blame  lay 
with  the  Major's  slavery  to  drink,  for  if  only  he 
had  remained  out  in  India  I  feel  sure  that  mat- 
ters would  have  gone  quite  differently. 

We  tramped  on  over  heather  and  ling  and 
springy  turf  till  we  reached  the  old  ruin  known 
as  the  Hunting  Tower ;  then  Derrick  seemed  to 
awake  to  the  recollection  of  present  things.  He 
looked  at  his  watch. 

" 1  must  go  back  to  my  father,"  he  said,  for 
the  first  time  breaking  the  silence. 

"  You  shall  do  no  such  thing ! "  I  cried.   "  Stay 


DERRICK  VAUGHAN— NOVELIST.  93 

out  here,  and  I  will  see  to  the  Major,  and  give 
him  the  letter  too  if  you  like." 

He  caught  at  the  suggestion,  and  as  he 
thanked  me  I  think  there  were  tears  in  his  eyes. 
So  I  took  the  letter  and  set  off  for  Ben  Rhyd- 
ding,  leaving  him  to  get  what  relief  he  could 
from  solitude,  space,  and  absolute  quiet.  Once 
I  just  glanced  back,  and  somehow  the  scene  has 
always  lingered  in  my  memory — the  great 
stretch  of  desolate  moor,  the  dull  crimson  of  the 
heather,  the  lowering  gray  clouds,  the  Hunting 
Tower  a  patch  of  deeper  gloom  against  the 
gloomy  sky,  and  Derrick's  figure  prostrate  on  the 
turf,  the  face  hidden,  the  hands  grasping  at  the 
sprigs  of  heather  growing  near. 

The  Major  was  just  ready  to  be  helped  into 
the  garden  when  I  reached  the  hotel.  We  sat 
down  in  the  very  same  place  where  Derrick  had 
read  the  news,  and  when  I  judged  it  politic,  I 
suddenly  remembered  with  apologies  the  letter 
that  had  been  intrusted  to  me.  The  old  man 
received  it  with  satisfaction,  for  he  was  fond  of 
Lawrence  and  proud  of  him,  and  the  news  of  the 
engagement  pleased  him  greatly.  He  was  still 
discussing  it  when,  two  hours  later,  Derrick  re- 
turned. 


94  DERRICK  VAUG II AN— NOVELIST. 

"  Here's  good  news ! "  said  the  Major,  glancing 
up  as  his  son  approached.  "  Trust  Lawrence  to 
fall  on  his  feet!  He  tells  me  the  girl  will  have 
a  thousand  a  year.  You  know  her,  don't  you? 
What's  she  like?" 

"  I  have  met  her,"  replied  Derrick,  with  forced 
composure.  "  She  is  very  charming." 

"  Lawrence  has  all  his  wits  about  him,"  growled 

the  Major.  "  Whereas  you "  (several  oaths 

interjected).  "It  will  be  a  long  while  before 
any  girl  with  a  dowry  will  look  at  you  !  What 
women  like  is  a  bold  man  of  action  ;  what  they 
despise,  mere  dabblers  in  pen  and  ink,  writers  of 
poisonous  sensational  tales  such  as  you  re !  I'm 
quoting  your  own  reviewers,  so  you  needn't  con- 
tradict me !  " 

Of  course  no  one  had  dreamt  of  contradict- 
ing ;  it  would  have  been  the  worst  possible  policy. 

"  Shall  I  help  you  in  ?  "  said  Derrick.  "  It  is 
just  dinner  time." 

And  as  I  walked  beside  them  to  the  hotel,  lis- 
tening to  the  Major's  flood  of  irritating  words, 
and  glancing  now  and  then  at  Derrick's  grave, 
resolute  face,  which  successfully  masked  such 
bitter  suffering,  I  couldn't  help  reflecting  that 
here  was  courage  infinitely  more  deserving  of  the 


DERRICK  VAUGUAN— NOVELIST.  95 

Victoria  Cross  than  Lawrence's  impulsive  rescue. 
Very  patiently  lie  sat  through  the  long  dinner. 
I  doubt  if  any  but  an  acute  observer  could  have 
told  that  he  was  in  trouble ;  and,  luckily,  the 
world  in  general  observes  hardly  at  all.  He  en- 
dured the  Major  till  it  was  time  for  him  to  take 
a  Turkish  bath,  and  then,  having  two  hours' 
freedom,  climbed  with  me  up  the  rock-covered 
hill  at  the  back  of  the  hotel.  He  was  very  silent. 
But  I  remember  that,  as  we  watched  the  sun  go 
down — a  glowing  crimson  ball,  half  veiled  in 
gray  mist — he  said,  abruptly,  "  If  Lawrence 
makes  her  happy  I  can  bear  it.  And  of  course 
I  always  knew  that  I  was  not  worthy  of  her." 

Derrick's  room  was  a  large,  gaunt,  glustly 
place  in  one  of  the  towers  of  the  hotel,  and  in 
one  corner  of  it  was  a  winding  stair  leading  to 
the  roof.  When  I  went  in  next  morning  I  found 
him  writing  away  at  his  novel  just  as  usual,  but 
when  I  looked  at  him  it  seemed  to  me  that  the 
night  had  aged  him  fearfully.  As  a  rule,  he  took 
interruptions  as  a  matter  of  course,  and  with 
perfect  sweetness  of  temper;  but  to-day  he 
seemed  unable  to  drag  himself  back  to  the  outer 
world.  He  was  writing  at  a  desperate  pace  too, 
and  frowned  when  I  spoke  to  him.  I  took  up 


96  DERRICK  VAUGHAN— NOVELIST. 

the  sheet  of  foolscap  which  he  had  just  finished 
and  glanced  at  the  number  of  the  page — evi- 
dently he  had  written  an  immense  quantity  since 
the  previous  day. 

"You  will  knock  yourself  up  if  you  go  on  at 
this  rate  ! "  I  exclaimed. 

"  Nonsense !  "  he  said,  sharply.  "  You  know 
it  never  tires  me." 

Yet,  all  the  same,  he  passed  his  hand  very 
wearily  over  his  forehead,  and  stretched  himself 
with  the  air  of  one  who  had  been  in  a  cramping 
position  for  many  hours. 

« 

"  You  have  broken  your  vow !  "  I  cried.  "  You 
have  been  writing  at  night." 

"  No,"  he  said ;  "  it  was  morning  whon  I 
began — three  o'clock.  And  it  pays  better  to 
get  up  and  write  than  to  lie  awake  thinking." 

Judging  by  the  speed  with  which  the  novel 
grew  in  the  next  few  weeks,  I  could  tell  that 
Derrick's  nights  were  of  the  worst. 

He  began,  too,  to  look  very  thin  and  haggard, 
and  I  more  than  once  noticed  that  curious 
"  sleep-walking "  expression  in  his  eyes ;  he 
seemed  to  me  just  like  a  man  who  has  received 
his  death-blow,  yet  still  lingers — half  alive,  half 
dead.  I  had  an  odd  feeling  that  it  was  his  novel 


DERRICK  VAUGHAN— NOVELIST.  97 

which  kept  him  going,  and  I  began  to  wonder 
what  would  happen  when  it  was  finished. 

A  month  later,  when  I  met  him  again  at  Bath 
he  had  written  the  last  chapter  of  "  At  Strife," 
and  we  read  it  over  the  sitting-room  fire  on  the 
Saturday  evening.  I  was  very  much  struck 
with  the  book ;  it  seemed  to  me  a  great  advance 
on  u  Lymvood's  Heritage,"  and  the  part  which 
he  had  written  since  that  day  at  Ben  Rhydding 
was  full  of  an  indescribable  power,  as  if  the  life 
of  which  he  had  been  robbed  had  flowed  into  his 
work.  When  he  had  done,  he  tied  up  the  MS. 
in  his  usual  prosaic  fashion,  just  as  if  it  had 
been  a  bundle  of  clothes,  and  put  it  on  a  side 
table. 

It  was  arranged  that  I  should  take  it  to  Davi- 
son — the  publisher  of  "  Lynwood's  Heritage" — 
on  Monday,  and  see  what  offer  he  would  make 
for  it.  Just  at  that  time  I  felt  so  sorry  for  Der- 
rick that  if  he  had  asked  me  to  hawk  round  fifty 
novels  I  would  have  done  it. 

Sunday  morning  proved  wet  and  dismal ;  as 
a  rule  the  Major,  who  was  fond  of  music,  attended 
service  at  the  Abbey,  but  the  weather  forced 
him  now  to  stay  at  home.  I  myself  was  at  that 
time  no  church-goer,  but  Derrick  would,  I  verily 


98  DERRICK  VAUGHAX-NOVELIST. 

believe,  as  soon  have  fasted  a  week  as  have 
given  up  a  Sunday  morning  service  ;  and  having 
no  mind  to  be  left  to  the  Major's  company,  and 
a  sort  of  wish  to  be  near  my  friend,  I  went  with 
him.  I  believe  it  is  not  correct  to  admire  Bath 
Abbey,  but  for  all  that  "  the  lantern  of  the  west  " 
has  always  seemed  to  me  a  grand  place ;  as  for 
Derrick,  he  had  a  horror  of  a  "  dim  religious 
light,"  and  always  stuck  up  for  its  huge  windows, 
and  I  believe  he  loved  the  Abbey  with  all  his 
heart.  Indeed,  taking  it  only  from  a  sensuous 
point  of  view,  I  could  quite  imagine  what  a  re- 
lief he  found  his  weekly  attendance  here  ;  by  con- 
trast with  his  home  the  place  was  Heaven  itself. 

As  we  walked  back,  I  asked  a  question  that 
had  long  been  in  my  mind ;  "  Have  you  seen 
anything  of  Lawrence  ?  " 

"  He  saw  us  across  London  on  our  way  from 
Ben  Rhydding,"  said  Derrick,  steadily.  "  Freda 
came  with  him,  and  my  father  was  delighted 
with  her." 

I  wondered  how  they  had  got  through  the 
meeting,  but  of  course  my  curiosity  had  to  go 
unsatisfied.  Of  one  thing  I  might  be  certain, 
namely,  that  Derrick  had  gone  through  with  it 
like  a  Trojan,  that  he  had  smiled  and  congratu- 


DERRICK  VAUG1IAN— NOVELIST.  £9 

lated  in  his  quiet  way,  and  had  done  his  best  to 
efface  himself  and  think  only  of  Freda.  But  as 
everyone  knows — 

"  Face  joy's  a  costly  mask  to  wear, 
'Tis  bought  with  pangs  long  nourished 
And  rounded  to  despair," 

and  he  looked  now  even  more  worn  and  old  than 
he  had  done  at  Ben  Rhydding  in  the  first  days  of 
his  trouble. 

However,  he  turned  resolutely  away  from  the 
subject  I  had  introduced  and  began  to  discuss 
titles  for  his  novel. 

"  It's  impossible  to  find  anything  new,"  he  said, 
"absolutely  impossible.  I  declare  I  shall  take 
to  numbers." 

I  laughed  at  this  prosaic  notion,  and  we  were 
still  discussing  the  title  when  we  reached  home. 

"  Don't  say  anything  about  it  at  lunch,"  he 
said  as  we  entered.  "My  father  detests  my 
writing." 

I  nodded  assent  and  opened  the  sitting-room 
door — a  strong  smell  of  brandy  instantly  became 
apparent ;  the  Major  sat  in  the  green  velvet 
chair,  which  had  been  wheeled  close  to  the 
hearth.  He  was  drunk. 

Derrick  gave  an  ejaculation  of  utter  hopeless- 
ness. 


100         DERRICK  VAUGHAN—  NOVELIST. 

"  This  will  undo  all  the  good  of  Ben  Ilhyd- 
ding  !  "  he  said.  "  How  on  earth  has  he  man- 
aged to  get  it  ?  " 

The  Major,  however,  was  not  so  far  gone  as 
he  looked ;  he  caught  up  the  remark  and  turned 
towards  us  with  a  hideous  laugh. 

"  Ah,  yes,"  he  said,  "  that's  the  question.  But 
the  old  man  has  still  some  brains,  you  see.  I'll 
be  even  with  you  yet,  Derrick.  You  needn't 
think  you're  to  have  it  all  your  own  way.  It's 
my  turn  now.  You've  deprived  me  all  this  time 
of  the  only  thing  I  care  for  in  life,  and  now  I 
turn  the  tables  on  you.  Tit  for  tat.  Oh !  yes, 

I've  turned  your  d d  scribblings  to  a  useful 

purpose,  so  you  needn't  complain  !  " 

Ail  this  had  been  shouted  out  at  the  top  of  his 
voice  and  freely  interlarded  with  expressions 
which  I  will  not  repeat ;  at  the  end  he  broke 
again  into  a  laugh,  and  with  a  look,  half  idiotic, 
half  devilish,  pointed  towards  the  grate. 

"Good  Heavens!"  I  said,  "What  have  you 
done?" 

By  the  side  of  the  chair  I  saw  a  piece  of  brown 
paper,  and,  catching  it  up,  read  the  address — 
"Messrs.  Davison,  Paternoster  Row" — in  the 
fireplace  was  a  huge  charred  mass.  Derrick 


DERRICK  VAUGH AN— NOVELIST.          101 

caught  his  breath ;  he  stooped  down  and  snatched 
from  the  fender  a  fragment  of  paper  slightly 
burned,  but  still  not  charred  beyond  recognition 
liked  the  rest.  The  writing  was  quite  legible — 
it  was  his  own  writing — the  description  of  the 
Royalist's  attack,  and  Paul  Wharncliffe's  defence 
of  the  bridge.  I  looked  from  the  half-burnt  scrap 
of  paper  to  the  side  table  where,  only  the  previous 
night,  we  had  placed  the  novel,  and  then,  realiz- 
ing as  far  as  any  but  an  author  could  realize,  the 
frightful  thing  that  had  happened,  I  looked  in 
Derrick's  face.  It's  white  fury  appalled  me. 
What  he  had  borne  hitherto  from  the  Major,  God 
only  knows,  but  this  was  the  last  drop  in  the  cup. 
Daily  insults,  ceaseless  provocation,  even  the 
humiliation  of  personal  violence  he  had  borne 
with  superhuman  patience  ;  but  this  last  injury, 
this  wantonly  cruel  outrage,  this  deliberate  de- 
struction of  an  amount  of  thought,  and  labor,  and 
suffering  which  only  the  writer  himself  could 
fully  estimate — this  was  intolerable. 

What  might  have  happened  had  the  Major 
been  sober  and  in  the  possession  of  ordinary 
physical  strength  I  hardly  care  to  think.  As  it 
was,  his  weakness  protected  him.  Derrick's 
wrath  was  speechless ;  with  one  look  of  loathing 


102         DERRICK  VAUGHAN- NOVELIST. 

and  contempt  at  the  drunken  man,  he  strode  out 
of  the  room,  caught  up  his  hat,  and  hurried  from 
the  house. 

The  Major  sat  chuckling  to  himself  for  a  min- 
ute or  two,  but  soon  he  grew  drowsy,  and  before 
long  was  snoring  like  a  grampus.  The  old  land- 
lady brought  in  lunch,  saw  the  state  of  things 
pretty  quickly,  shook  her  head  and  commiserated 
Derrick.  Then,  when  she  had  left  the  room,  see- 
ing no  prospect  that  either  of  my  companions 
would  be  in  a  fit  state  for  lunch,  I  made  a  solitary 
meal,  and  had  just  finished  when  a  cab  stopped 
at  the  door,  and  out  sprang  Derrick.  I  went  into 
the  passage  to  meet  him. 

"The  Major  is  asleep,"  I  remarked. 

He  took  no  more  notice  than  if  I  had  spoken 
of  the  cat. 

"  I'm  going  to  London,"  he  said,  making  for 
the  stairs.  "  Can  you  get  your  bag  ready? 
There's  a  train  at  2  :  5." 

Somehow  the  suddenness  and  the  self-control 
with  which  he  made  this  announcement  carried 
me  back  to  the  hotel  at  Southampton,  where, 
after  listening  to  the  account  of  the  ship's  doctor, 
he  had  announced  his  intention  of  living  with 
his  father.  For  more  than  two  years  he  had 


DERRICK  VAUGHAN— NOVELIST.         103 

borne  this  awful  life  ;  he  had  lost  pretty  nearly 
all  that  there  was  to  be  lost,  and  he  had  gained 
the  Major's  vindictive  hatred.  Now,  half  mad- 
dened by  pain  and  having,  as  he  thought,  so 
hopelessly  failed,  he  saw  nothing  for  it  but  to  go 
— and  that  at  once. 

I  packed  my  bag,  and  then  went  to  help  him. 
He  was  cramming  all  his  possessions  into  port- 
manteaus and  boxes ;  the  H  ff man  was  already 
packed,  and  the  wall  looked  curiously  bare  with- 
out it.  Clearly  this  was  no  visit  to  London: — he 
was  leaving  Bath  for  good,  and  who  could  won- 
der at  it  ? 

"  I  have  arranged  for  the  attendant  from  the 
hospital  to  come  in  at  night  as  well  as  in  the 
morning,"  he  said,  as  he  locked  a  portmanteau 
that  was  stuffed  almost  to  bursting.  "  What's 
the  time  ?  We  must  make  haste  or  we  shall  lose 
the  train.  Do,  like  a  good  fellow,  cram  that 
heap  of  things  into  the  carpet-bag  while  I  speak 
to  the  landlady." 

At  last  we  were  off,  rattling  through  the  quiet 
streets  of  Bath,  and  reaching  the  station  barely 
in  time  to  rush  up  the  long  flight  of  stairs  and 
spring  into  an  empty  carriage.  Never  shall  I 
forget  that  journey.  The  train  stopped  at  every 


104        DERRICK  VAUGUAN— NOVELIST. 

single  station,  and  sometimes  in  between ;  we 
were  five  mortal  hours  on  the  road,  and  more 
than  once  I  thought  Derrick  would  have  fainted. 
However,  he  was  not  of  the  fainting  order,  he 
only  grew  more  and  more  ghastly  in  color  and 
rigid  in  expression. 

I  felt  very  anxious  about  him,  for  the  shock 
and  the  sudden  anger  following  on  the  trouble 
about  Freda  seemed  to  me  enough  to  unhinge 
even  a  less  sensitive  nature.  "  At  Strife  "  was 
the  novel  which  had,  I  firmly  believe,  kept  him 
alive  through  that  awful  time  at  Ben  Rhydding, 
and  I  began  to  fear  that  the  Major's  fit  of  drunken 
malice  might  prove  the  destruction  of  the  author 
as  well  as  of  the  book.  Everything  had,  as  it 
were,  come  at  once  on  poor  Derrick ;  yet  I  don't 
know  that  he  fared  worse  than  other  people  in 
this  respect. 

Life,  unfortunately,  is  for  most  of  us  no  well- 
arranged  story  with  a  happy  termination ;  it  is  a 
checkered  affair  of  shade  and  sun,  and  for  one 
beam  of  light  there  come  very  often  wide  patches 
of  shadow.  Men  seem  to  have  known  this  so 
far  back  as  Shakespeare's  time,  and  to  have  ob- 
served that  one  woe  trod  on  another's  heels,  to 
have  battled  not  with  a  single  wave,  but  with  a 


DERRICK  VAUG HAN— NOVELIST.          105 

"sea  of  troubles,"  and  to  have  remarked  that 
"  sorrows  come  not  singly,  but  in  battalions." 

However,  owing  I  believe  chiefly  to  his  own 
self-command,  and  to  his  untiring  faculty  for  tak- 
ing infinite  pains  over  his  work,  Derrick  did  not 
break  down,  but  pleasantly  cheated  my  expecta- 
tions. I  was  not  called  on  to  nurse  him  through 
a  fever,  and  consumption  did  not  mark  him  for 
her  own.  In  fact,  in  the  matter  of  illness,  he 
was  always  the  most  prosaic,  unromantic  fellow, 
and  never  indulged  in  any  of  the  euphonious  and 
interesting  ailments.  In  all  his  life,  I  believe, 
he  never  went  in  for  anything  but  the  mumps — 
of  all  complaints  the  least  interesting — and,  may 
be,  an  occasional  headache. 

However,  all  this  is  a  digression.  We  at  length 
reached  London,  and  Derrick  took  a  room  above 
mine,  now  and  then  disturbing  me  with  noctur- 
nal pacings  over  the  creaking  boards,  but,  on  the 
whole,  proving  himself  the  best  of  companions. 

If  I  wrote  till  Doomsday,  I  could  never  make 
you  understand  how  the  burning  of  his  novel, 
affected  him — to  this  day  it  is  a  subject  I  instinc- 
tively avoid  with  hyii — though  the  rewritten  "  At 
Strife  "  has  been  such  a  grand  success.  For  he 
did  re-write  the  story,  and  that  at  once.  He  said 


106        DERRICK  VAUGIIAN-NOVEL1ST. 

little  ;  but  the  very  next  morning,  in  one  of  the 
windows  of  our  quiet  sitting-room,  often  enough 
looking  out  despairingly  at  the  gray  monotony 
of  Montague  Street,  he  began  at  "  Page  1,  Chap- 
ter 1,"  and  so  worked  patiently  on  for  many 
months  to  re-make  as  far  as  he  could  what  his 
drunken  father  had  maliciously  destroyed.  Be- 
yond the  unburnt  paragraph  about  the  attack  on 
Mondisfield,  he  had  nothing  except  a  few  hastily 
scribbled  ideas  in  his  note-book,  and  of  course 
the  very  elaborate  and  careful  historical  notes 
which  he  had  made  on  the  Civil  War,  during 
many  years  of  reading  and  research — for  this 
period  had  always  been  a  favorite  study  with 
him. 

But,  as  any  author  will  understand,  the  effort 
of  re-writing  was  immense,  and  this,  combined 
with  all  the  other  troubles,  tried  Derrick  to  the 
utmost.  However,  he  toiled  on,  and  I  have 
always  thought  that  his  resolute,  unyielding  con- 
duct with  regard  to  that  book  pro  ved  what  a  man 
he  was. 


DERRICK  F AUGEAN— NOVELIST.          107 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

"  How  oft  Fate's  sharpest  blow  shall  leave  thee  strong, 
With  some  re-risen  ecstacy  of  song." 

F.  W.  H.  MYERS. 

\s  the  autumn  wore  on,  we  heard  now  and 
then  from  old  Mackrill  the  doctor.  His  re- 
ports of  the  Major  were  pretty  uniform.  Derrick 
used  to  hand  them  over  to  me  when  he  had  read 
them;  but,  by  tacit  consent,  the  Major's  name 
was  never  mentioned. 

Meantime,  besides  re-writing  "  At  Strife,"  he 
was  accumulating  material  for  his  next  book 
and  working  to  very  good  purpose.  Not  a 
minute  of  his  day  was  idle ;  he  read  much,  saw 
various  phases  of  life  hitherto  unknown  to  him, 
studied,  observed,  gained  experience,  and  con- 
trived, I  believe,  to  think  very  little  and  very 
guardedly  of  Freda. 

But,  on  Christmas  Eve,  I  noticed  a  change  in 
him — and  that  very  night  he  spoke  to  me.  For 
such  an  impressionable  fellow,  he  had  really 
extraordinary  tenacity,  and,  spite  of  the  course 


108         DERRICK  VAUGHAN—  NOVELIST. 

of  Herbert  Spencer  that  I  had  put  him  through, 
he  retained  his  unshaken  faith  in  many  things 
which  to  me  were  at  that  time  the  merest 
legends.  I  remember  very  well  the  arguments 
we  used  to  have  on  the  vexed  question  of  "  Free- 
will," and  being  myself  more  or  less  of  a  fatalist, 
it  annoyed  me  that  I  never  could  in  the  very 
slightest  degree  shake  his  convictions  on  that 
point.  Moreover,  when  I  plagued  him  too  much 
with  Herbert  Spencer,  he  had  a  way  of  retalia- 
ting, and  would  foist  upon  me  his  favorite  authors. 
He  was  never  a  worshipper  of  any  one  writer 
but  always  had  at  least  a  dozen  prophets  in 
whose  praise  he  was  enthusiastic. 

Well,  on  this  Christmas  Eve,  we  had  been  to 
see  dear  old  Ravenscroft  and  his  granddaughter, 
and  we  were  walking  back  through  the  quiet 
precincts  of  the  Temple,  when  he  said,  abruptly — 

"  I  have  decided  to  go  back  to  Bath,  to-mor- 
row." 

"Have  }-ou  had  a  worse  account ?"  I  asked, 
much  startled  at  this  sudden  announcement. 

"No;"  he  replied,  "but  the  one  I  had  a  week 
ago  was  far  from  good  if  you  remember,  and  I 
Lave  a  feeling  that  I  ought  to  be  there." 

At  that  moment  we  emerged  into  the  confusion 


DERRICK  VAUGUAN— NOVELIST.          109 

of  Fleet  Street;  but  when  we  had  crossed  the 
road  I  began  to  remonstrate  with  him,  and  argued 
the  folly  of  the  idea  all  the  way  down  Chancery 
Lane. 

However,  there  was  no  shaking  his  purpose  ; 
Christmas  and  its  associations  had  made  his  life 
in  town  no  longer  possible  for  him. 

"  I  must  at  any  rate  tiy  it  again  and  see  how 
it  works,"  he  said. 

And  all  I  could  do  was  to  persuade  him  to 
leave  the  bulk  of  his  possessions  in  London,  4i  in 
case,"  as  he  remarked,  "  the  Major  would  not 
have  him." 

So  the  next  day  I  vas  left  to  myself  again 
with  nothing  to  remind  me  of  Derrick's  stay  but 
his  pictures  whicli  still  hung  on  the  wall  of  our 
sitting-room.  I  made  him  promise  to  write  a 
full,  true,  and  particular  account  of  his  return,  a 
bond  fide  old-fashioned  letter,  not  the  half-dozen 
lines  of  these  degenerate  da}-s  ;  and  about  a  week 
later  I  received  the  following  budget. 

"  DEAB  SYDNEY, — 

"  I  got  down  to  Bath  all  right,  and,  thanks 
to  your  'Study  of  sociology,'  endured  a  slow  and  cold  and 
dull  and  depressing  journey  with  the  thermometer  down  to 
zero,  and  spirits  to  correspond,  with  the  country  a  monoto- 
nous white,  and  the  sky  a  monotonous  gray,  and  a  companion 


110         DERRICK  VAUGIIAN— NOVELIST. 

who  smoked  the  vilest  tobacco  you  can  conceive.  The  old 
place  looks  as  beautiful  as  ever,  and  to  my  great  satisfaction 
the  hills  rounJ  about  are  green.  Snow,  save  in  pictures,  is 
an  abomination.  Milsom  Street  looked  asleep,  and  Gay 
Street  decidedly  dreary,  but  the  inhabitants  were  roused  by 
my  knock,  and  the  old  landlady  nearly  shook  my  hand  off. 
My  father  has  an  attack  of  jaundice  and  is  in  a  miserable 
state.  He  was  asleep  when  I  got  here,  and  the  good  old 
landlady,  thinking  the  front  sitting-room  would  be  free,  had 
invited  '  company,'  i.  e.,  two  or  three  married  daughters  and 
their  belongings;  one  of  the  children  beats  Magnay's  '  Cat  ina ' 
as  to  beauty — he  ought  to  paint  her.  Happy  thought,  send 
him  and  prelty  Mrs.  Esperance  down  here  on  spec.  He  can 
paint  the  child  for  the  next  Academy,  and  meantime  I  could 
enjoy  his  company.  Well,  all  these  good  folks  being  just 
set-to  at  roast  beef,  I  naturally  wouldn't  hear  of  disturbing 
them,  and  in  the  end  was  obliged  to  sit  down  too  and  eat  at 
that  hour  of  the  day  the  hugest  dinner  you  ever  saw — anything 
but  voracious  appetites  offended  the  hostess.  Magnay's 
future  model,  for  all  its  angelic  face,  '  ate  to  repletion '  like 
the  fair  American  in  the  story.  Then  I  went  into  my  father's 
room,  and  shortly  after  he  woke  up  and  asked  me  to  give 
him  some  Friedrichshall  water,  making  no  comment  at  all  on 
my  return,  but  just  behaving  as  though  I  had  been  here  all 
the  autumn,  so  that  1  felt  as  if  the  whole  affair  were  a  dream. 
Except  for  this  attack  of  jaundice,  he  has  been  much  as 
usual,  and  when  you  next  come  down  you  will  find  us  settled 
into  our  old  groove.  The  quiet  of  it  after  London  is  ex- 
traordinary. But  I  believe  it  suits  the  book,  which  gets  on 
pretty  fast.  This  afternoon  I  went  up  Lansdown  and  right 
on  past  the  Grand  Stand  to  Prospect  Stile,  which  is  at  the 
edge  of  a  high  bit  of  table-land,  and  looks  over  a  splendid 
stretch  of  country,  with  the  Bristol  Channel  and  the  Welsh 
hills  in  the  distance.  While  I  was  there  the  sun  most  consid- 
erately set  in  gorgeous  array.  You  never  saw  anything  like 
it.  It  was  worth  the  journey  from  London  to  Bath,  i  can 
assure  you.  Tell  Magnay,  and  may  it  lure  him  down  ;  also 
name  the  model  aforementioned. 


DERRICK  VAUGHAN— NOVELIST.          HI 

"How  is  the  old  Q.C.  and  his  pretty  grandchild?  That 
quaint  old  room  of  theirs  in  the  Temple  somehow  took  my 
fancy,  and  the  child  was  divine.  l)o  you  remember  my 
showing  you,  in  a  gloomy  narrow  street  here,  a  jolly  old 
watchmaker  who  sits  in  his  shop-window  and  is  forever 
bending  over  sick  clocks  and  watches?  Well,  he's  still  sit- 
ting there,  as  if  he  had  never  moved  since  we  saw  him  that 
Saturday  months  ago.  I  mean  to  study  him  for  a  portrait  ; 
his  sallow  clean-shaved  wrinkled  face  has  a  whole  skry  in  it. 
I  believe  he  is  married  to  a  Xanthippe  who  throws  cold  water 
over  him,  both  literally  and  metaphorically  ;  but  he  is  a 
philosopher — I'll  stake  my  reputation  as  an  observer  on  that 
—  he  just  shrugs  his  sturdy  old  shoulders,  and  goes  on  mending 
clocks  and  watches.  On  dark  days  he  works  by  a  gas  jet — 
and  then  Rembrandt  would  enjoy  painting  him.  I  look  at 
him  whenever  my  world  is  particularly  awry,  and  find  him 
highly  beneficial,  Davison  lias  forwarded  me  to-day  two 
letters  from  readers  of  'Lynwood.'  The  first  is  from  an  irate 
female  who  takes  mo  to  task  for  the  dangerous  tendency  of 
the  story,  and  insists  that  I  have  drawn  impossible  circum- 
stances and  impossible  characters.  The  second  is  from  an 
old  clergyman,  who  writes  a  pathetic  letter  of  thanks,  and 
tells  me  that  it  is  almost  word  for  word  the  story  of  a  son  of 
his  who  died  five  years  ago.  Query  :  shall  I  send  the  irate 
female  the  old  man's  letter,  and  save  myself  the  trouble  of 
writing?  But  on  the  whole  I  think  not,  it  would  be  pearls 
before  swine.  I  will  write  to  her  myself.  Glad  to  see  you 
whenever  you  can  run  down. 

"  Yours  ever, 

"  D.  V. 
"  (Xever  struck  me  before  what  pious  initials  mine  are)." 

The  very  evening  I  received  this  letter,  I 
happened  to  be  dining  at  the  Probyns'.  As  luck 
would  have  it,  pretty  Miss  Freda  was  staying  in 
the  house,  and  she  fell  to  my  share.  I  always 


112         DERRICK  VAUGUAN— NOVELIST. 

liked  her,  though  of  late  I  had  felt  rather  angry 
with  her  for  being  carried  away  by  the  general 
storm  of  admiration  and  swept  by  it  into  an 
engagement  with  Lawrence  Vaughan.  She  was 
a  very  pleasant,  natural  sort  of  talker,  and  she 
always  treated  me  as  an  old  friend.  But  she 
seemed  to  me,  that  night,  a  little  less  satisfied 
than  usual  with  life.  Perhaps  it  was  merely  the 
effect  of  the  black  lace  dress  which  she  wore, 
but  I  fancied  her  paler  and  thinner,  and  some- 
how she  seemed  all  eyes. 

"  Where  is  Lawrence  now  ?  "  I  asked,  as  we 
went  down  to  the  dining-room. 

"  He  is  stationed  at  Dover,"  she  replied.  "  He 
was  up  here  for  a  few  hours  yesterday ;  he  came 
to  say  good-bye  to  me,  for  I  am  going  to  Bath 
next  Monday  with  my  father,  who  has  been 
very  rheumatic  lately — and  you  know  Bath  is 
coming  into  fashion  again,  all  the  doctors  recom- 
mend it." 

"  Major  Vaughan  is  there,"  I  said, "  and  has 
found  the  waters  very  good,  I  believe ;  any  day, 
at  twelve  o'clock,  you  may  see  him  getting  out 
of  his  chair  and  going  into  the  Pump  Room  on 
Derrick's  arm.  I  often  wonder  what  outsiders 
think  of  them.  It  isn't  often,  is  it,  that  one  sees 


DERRICK  VAUGHAN— NOVELIST.          113 

a  son  absolutely  giving  up  his  life  to  his  invalid 
father?" 

She  looked  a  little  startled. 

"  I  wish  Lawrence  could  be  more  with  Major 
Vaughari,"  she  said ;  "  for  he  is  his  father's 
favorite.  You  see  he  is  such  a  good  talker, 
and  Derrick — well,  he  is  absorbed  in  his  books  ; 
and  then  he  has  such  extravagant  notions  about 
war,  he  must  be  a  very  uncongenial  companion 
to  the  poor  Major." 

I  devoured  turbot  in  wrathful  silence.  Freda 
glanced  at  me. 

"  It  is  true,  isn't  it,  that  he  has  quite  given  up 
his  life  to  writing  and  cares  for  nothing  else  ?  " 

"  Well,  he  has  deliberately  sacrificed  his  best 
chance  of  success  by  leaving  London  and  bury- 
ing himself  in  the  provinces,"  I  replied  dryly  ; 
"  and  as  to  caring  for  nothing  but  writing,  why 
he  never  gets  more  than  two  or  three  hours  a 
day  for  it."  And  then  I  gave  her  a  minute 
account  of  his  daily  routine. 

She  began  to  look  troubled. 

"  I  have  been  misled,"  she  said ;  "  I  had  gained 
quite  a  wrong  impression  of  him." 

"  Very  few  people  know  anything  at  all  about 
him,"  I  said  warmly  ;  "  you  are  not  alone  in  that." 


114         DERRICK  VAUGHAN— NOVELIST 

"  I  suppose  his  next  novel  is  finished  now  ?  " 
said  Freda ;  "  he  told  me  he  had  only  one  or 
two  more  chapters  to  write  when  I  saw  him  a 
few  months  ago  on  his  way  from  Ben  Rhydding. 
What  is  he  writing  now  ?  " 

"  He  is  writing  that  novel  over  again,"  I  replied. 

"  Over  again?     What  fearful  waste  of  time  ?  " 

"  Yes,  it  has  cost  him  hundreds  of  hours' work  ; 
it  just  shows  what  a  man  he  is  that  he  has  gone 
through  with  it  so  bravely." 

"  But  how  do  you  mean  ?     Didn't  it  do  ?  " 

Rashly,  perhaps  yet  I  think  unavoidably,  I 
told  her  the  truth. 

"  It  was  the  best  thing  he  had  ever  written, 
but  unfortunately  it  was  destroyed,  burnt  to  a 
cinder.  That  was  not  very  pleasant,  was  it,  for  a 
man  who  never  makes  two  copies  of  his  work?  " 

"  It  was  frightful !  "  said  Freda,  her  eyes 
dilating.  "  I  never  heard  a  word  about  it.  Does 
Lawrence  know  ?  " 

"  No,  he  does  not;  and  perhaps  I  ought  not 
to  have  told  you,  but  I  was  annoyed  at  your  so 
misunderstanding  Derrick.  Pray  never  mention 
the  affair,  he  would  wish  it  kept  perfectly  quiet." 

"  Why  ?  "  asked  Freda,  turning  her  clear  eyes 
full  upon  mine. 


DERRICK  VAUGHAN-NOVEL1ST.          115 

"Because,"  I  said,  lowering  my  voice,  "because 
his  father  burnt  it." 

She  almost  gasped. 

"Deliberately?" 

"  Yes,  deliberately,"  I  replied.  "  His  illness 
has  affected  his  temper,  and  he  is  sometimes 
hardly  responsible  for  his  actions." 

"  Oli,  I  knew  that  he  was  irritable  and  hasty 
and  that  Derrick  annoyed  him.  Lawrence  told 
me  that,  long  ago,"  said  Freda.  "  But  that  he 
should  have  done  such  a  think  as  that !  It  is 
horrible  !  Poor  Derrick,  how  sorry  I  am  for  him  ! 
I  hope  we  shall  see  something  of  them  at  Bath. 
Do  you  know  how  the  Major  is  ?  " 

"  I  had  a  letter  about  him  from  Derrick  only 
this  evening,"  I  replied,  "  if  you  care  to  see  it,  I 
will  show  it  you  Liter  on." 

And  by-and-by,  in  the  drawing-room,  I  put 
Derrick's  letter  into  her  hands,  and  explained  to 
her  how  for  a  few  months  he  had  given  up  his 
life  at  Bath,  in  despair,  but  now  had  returned. 

"  I  don't  think  Lawrence  can  understand  the 
state  of  things,"  she  said,  wistfully.  "  And  yet 
he  has  been  down  there." 

I  made  no  reply,  and  Freda,  with  a  sigh  turned 
away. 


116         DERRICK  VAUQHAN— NOVELIST. 

A  month  later  I  went  down  to  Bath  and  found, 
as  my  friend  foretold,  everything  going  on  in 
the  old  groove,  except  that  Derrick  himself  had  an 
odd,  strained  look  about  him,  as  if  he  Avere  fight- 
ing a  foe  beyond  his  strength.  Freda's  arrival 
at  Bath  had  been  very  hard  on  him,  it  was  almost 
more  than  he  could  endure.  Sir  Richard,  blind 
as  a  bat,  of  course,  to  anything  below  the  surface 
made  a  point  of  seeing  something  of  Lawrence's 
brother.  And  on  the  day  of  my  arrival  Derrick 
and  I  had  hardly  set  out  for  a  walk  when  we 
ran  across  the  old  man. 

Sir  Richard,  through  rheumatic  in  the  wrists, 
was  nimble  of  foot  and  an  inveterate  walker. 
He  was  going  with  his  daughter  to  see  over  Beck- 
ford's  Tower,  and  invited  us  to  accompany  him. 
Derrick,  much  against  the  grain,  I  fancy,  had  to 
talk  to  Freda,  who,  in  her  winter  furs  and  close-fit- 
ting velvet  hat,  looked  more  fascinating  than  ever, 
while  the  old  man  descanted  to  me  on  Bath 
waters,  antiquities,  etc.,  in  a  long-winded  way  that 
lasted  all  up  the  hill.  We  made  our  way  into  the 
cemetery  and  mounted  the  tower  stairs,  think- 
ing of  the  past  when  this  dreary  place  had  been 
so  gorgeously  furnished.  Here  Derrick  contrived 


DERRICK  VAUGHAN— NOVELIST.         117 

to  get  ahead  with  Sir  Richard,  and  Freda 
lingered  in  a  sort  of  alcove  with  me. 

"  I  have  been  so  wanting  to  see  you,"  she  said, 
in  an  agitated  voice.  "  Oh,  Mr.  Wharncliffe,  is 
it  true  what  I  have  heard  about  the  Major? 
Does  he  drink  ?  " 

"  Who  told  you  ?  "  I  said,  a  little  embarrassed. 

"  It  was  our  landlady,"  said  Freda ;  "  she  is 
the  daughter  of  the  Major's  landlady.  And  you 
should  hear  what  she  says  of  Derrick !  Why  he 
must  be  a  downright  hero  !  All  the  time  I  have 
been  half  despising  him  " — she  choked  back  a 
sob — "  he  has  been  trying  to  save  his  father  from 
what  was  certain  death  to  him — so  they  told  me. 
Do  you  think  it  is  true  ?  " 

"  I  know  it  is,"  I  replied  gravely. 

"  And  about  his  arm — was  that  true  ?  " 

I  signed  an  assent. 

Her  gray  eyes  grew  moist. 

"  Oh,'*  she  cried, "  how  I  have  been  deceived, 
and  how  little  Lawrence  appreciates  him  I  I  think 
he  must  know  that  I've  misjudged  him,  for  he 
seems  so  odd  and  shy,  and  I  don't  think  he  likes 
to  talk  to  me." 

I  looked  searchingly  into  her  truthful  gray  eyes, 
thinking  of  poor  Derrick's  unlucky  love-story. 


118         DERRICK  VAUGH AN— NOVELIST. 

"  You  do  not  understand  him,"  I  said ;  "  and 
perhaps  it  is  best  so." 

But  the  words  and  the  look  were  rash,  for  all 
at  once  the  color  flooded  her  face.  She  turned 
quickly  away,  conscious  at  last  that  the  mid- 
summer dream  of  those  yachting  days  had  to 
Derrick  been  no  dream  at  all,  but  a  life-long 
reality. 

I  felt  very  sorry  for  Freda,  for  she  was  not  at 
all  the  sort  of  girl  who  would  glory  in  having  a 
fellow  hopelessly  in  love  with  her.  I  knew  that 
the  discovery  she  had  made  would  be  nothing 
but  a  sorrow  to  her,  and  could  guess  how  she 
would  reproach  herself  for  that  innocent  past 
fancy,  which,  till  now,  had  seemed  to  her  so 
faint  and  far-away — almost  as  something  belong- 
ing to  another  life.  All  at  once  we  heard  the 
others  descending,  and  she  turned  to  me  with 
such  a  frightened,  appealing  look,  that  I  could 
not  possibly  have  helped  going  to  the  rescue.  I 
plunged  abruptly  into  a  discourse  on  Beckford, 
and  told  her  how  he  used  to  keep  diamonds  in  a 
tea-cup,  and  amused  himself  by  arranging  them 
on  a  piece  of  velvet.  Sir  Richard  fled  from  the 
sound  of  my  prosy  voice,  and,  needless  to  say, 
Derrick  followed  him.  We  let  them  get  well  in 


DERRICK  VAUGII AN— NOVELIST.          119 

advance  and  then  followed,  Freda  silent  and 
distraite,  but  every  now  and  then  asking  a  ques- 
tion about  the  Major. 

As  for  Derrick,  evidently  he  was  on  guard. 
He  saw  a  good  deal  of  the  Merrifields  and  was 
sedulously  attentive  to  them  in  many  small 
ways ;  but  with  Freda  he  was  curiously  reserved, 
and  if  by  chance  they  did  talk  together,  he  took 
good  care  to  bring  Lawrence's  name  into  the 
conversation.  On  the  whole,  I  believe  loyalty 
was  his  strongest  characteristic,  and  want  of 
loyalty  in  others  tried  him  more  severely  than 
anything  in  the  world. 

As  the  spring  wore  on,  it  became  evident  to 
everyone  that  the  Major  could  not  last  long. 
His  son's  watchfulness  and  the  enforced  temper- 
ance which  the  doctors  insisted  on  had  prolonged 
his  life  to  a  certain  extent,  but  gradually  his 
sufferings  increased  and  his  strength  diminished. 
At  last  he  kept  his  bed  altogether. 

What  Derrick  bore  at  this  time  no  one  can 
ever  know.  When,  one  bright  sunshiny  Satur- 
day, I  went  down  to  see  how  he  was  getting  on, 
I  found  him  worn  and  haggard,  too  evidently 
paying  the  penalty  of  sleepless  nights  and  thank- 
less care.  I  was  a  little  shocked  to  hear  that  Law- 


120         DERRICK  VAUGIIAN— NOVELIST. 

rencc  had  been  summoned,  but  when  I  was  taken 
into  the  sick  room  I  realized  that  they  had  done 
wisely  to  send  for  the  favorite  son. 

The  Major  was  evidently  dying. 

Never  can  I  forget  the  cruelty  and  malevo- 
cnce  with  which  his  bloodshot  eyes  rested  on 
Derrick,  or  the  patience  with  which  the  dear  old 
fellow  bore  his  father's  scathing  sarcasms.  It 
was  while  I  was  sitting  by  the  bed  that  the  land- 
lady entered  with  a  telegram,  which  she  put  into 
Derrick's  hand. 

"  From  Lawrence  !  "  said  the  dying  man 
triumphantly,  "  to  say  by  what  train  we  may 
expect  him.  Well  ?  "  as  Derrick  still  read  the 
message  to  himself  ;  "  can't  you  speak,  you 

d d  idiot  ?  Have  you  lost  your  d d 

tongue  ?  What  does  he  say  ?  " 

"  I  am  afraid  he  cannot  be  here  just  yet,"  said 
Derrick,  trying  to  tone  down  the  curt  message  ; 
"  it  seems  he  cannot  get  leave." 

"  Not  get  leave  to  see  his  dying  father  ? 
What  confounded  nonsense.  Give  me  the  thing 
here ;  "  and  he  snatched  the  telegram  from 
Derrick  and  read  it  in  a  quavering,  hoarse  voice, 

"  Impossible  to  get  away.  Am  hopelessly  tied  here. 
Love  to  iny  father.  Greatly  regret  to  hear  such  bad  news  of 
him." 


DERRICK  VAUGnAN— NOVELIST.         121 

I  think  that  message  made  the  old  man 
realize  the  worth  of  Lawrence's  often  expressed 
affection  for  him.  Clearly  it  was  a  great  blow- 
to  him.  He  threw  down  the  paper  without  a 
word  and  closed  his  eyes.  For  half  an  hour  he 
lay  like  that,  and  we  did  not  disturb  him.  At 
last  he  looked  up ;  his  voice  was  fainter  and  his 
manner  more  gentle. 

"  Derrick,"  he  said,  "  I  believe  I've  done  you 
an  injustice  ;  it  is  you  who  care  for  me,  not 
Lawrence,  and  I've  struck  your  name  out  of  my 
will — have  left  all  to  him.  After  all,  though 
you  are  one  of  those  confounded  novelists,  you've 
done  what  you  could  for  me.  Let  some  one 
fetch  a  solicitor — I'll  alter  it — I'll  alter  it !  " 

I  instantly  hurried  out  to  fetch  a  lawyer,  but 
it  was  Saturday  afternoon,  the  offices  were  closed, 
and  some  time  passed  before  I  had  caught  iny 
man.  I  told  him  as  we  hastened  back  some  of 
the  facts  of  the  case,  and  he  brought  his  writing 
materials  into  the  sick  room  and  took  down  from 
the  Major's  own  lips  the  words  which  would 
have  the  effect  of  dividing  the  old  man's  posses- 
sions between  his  two  sons.  Dr.  Mackrill  was 
now  present ;  he  stood  on  one  side  of  the  bed, 
his  fingers  on  the  dying  man's  pulse.  On  the 


122          DERRICK  VAUGUAN— NOVELIST. 

other  side   stood   Derrick,  a  degree  paler  and    • 
graver  tban  usual,  but  revealing  little  of  liisreal 
feelings. 

"Word  it  as  briefly  as  you  can,"  said  the  doc- 
tor. 

And  the  lawyer  scribbled  away  as  though  for 
his  life,  while  the  rest  of  us  waited  in  a  wretched 
hushed  state  of  tension.  In  the  room  itself  there 
was  no  sound  save  the  scratching  of  tli3  pen  and 
the  labored  breathing  of  the  old  man ;  but  in 
the  next  house  we  could  hear  some  one  playing 
a  waltz.  Somehow  it  did  not  seem  to  me  incon- 
gruous, for  it  was  "  Sweethearts,"  and  that  had 
been  the  favorite  waltz  at  Ben  Rhydding,  so 
that  I  always  connected  it  with  Derrick  and  his 
trouble,  and  now  the  words  rang  in  my  ears — 

"  Oh,  love  for  a  year,  a  week,  a  day, 
But  alas  !  for  the  love  that  loves  alway." 

If  it  had  not  been  for  the  Major's  return  from 
India,  I  firmly  believed  that  Derrick  and  Freda 
would  by  this  time  have  been  betrothed.  Der- 
rick had  taken  a  line  which  necessarily  divided 
them,  had  done  what  he  saw  to  be  his  duty ;  yet 
what  were  the  results?  He  had  lost  Freda,  he 
had  lost  his  book,  he  had  damaged  his  chance  of 
success  as  a  writer,  he  had  been  struck  out  oi 


DERRICK  VAUG HAN— NOVELIST.         123 

his  father's  will,  and  he  had  suffered  unspeaka- 
bly. Had  anything  whatever  been  gained?  The 
Major  was  dying  unrepentant  to  all  appearance, 
as  hard  and  cynical  an  old  worldling  as  I  ever 
saw.  The  only  spark  of  grace  he  showed 
was  that  tardy  endeavor  to  make  a  fresh  will. 
What  good  had  it  all  been  ?  What  good  ? 

I  could  not  answer  the  question  then,  could 
only  cry  out  HI  a  sort  of  indignation,  "  What 
profit  is  there  in  his  blood  ?"  But  looking  at  it 
now,  I  have  a  sort  of  perception  that  the  very 
lack  of  apparent  profitableness  was  part  of  Der- 
rick's training,  while  if,  as  I  now  incline  to 
think,  there  is  a  hereafter  where  the  training 
begfun  here  is  continued,  the  old  Major  in  the 
hel]  hs  most  richly  deserved  would  have  the  re- 
membrance of  his  sou's  patience  and  constancy 
and  devotion  to  serve  as  a  guiding  light  in  the 
outer  darkness. 

The  lawyer  no  longer  wrote  at  railroad  speed  ; 
he  pushed  back  his  chair,  brought  the  will  to  the 
bed,  and  placed  the  pen  ui  the  trembling  yellow 
hand  of  the  invalid. 

''You  must  sign  your  name  here,'*  he  said, 
pointing  with  his  finger;  and  the  Major  raised 
himself  a  little,  and  brought  the  pen  quaver- 


124        DERRICK  VAUGHAN— NOVELIST. 

ingly  down  towards  the  paper.  With  a  sort  of 
fascination  I  watched  the  finely-pointed  steel 
nib;  it  trembled  for  an  instant  or  two,  then  the 
pen  dropped  from  the  convulsed  fingers,  and 
with  a  cry  of  intolerable  anguish  the  Major  fell 
back. 

For  some  minutes  there  was  a  painful  struggle ; 
presently  we  caught  a  word  or  two  between  the 
groans  of  the  dying  man. 

"  Too  late  ! "  he  gasped, "  too  late  !  "  and  then 
a  dreadful  vision  of  horrors  seemed  to  rise  be- 
fore him,  and  with  a  terror  that  I  can  never  for- 
get he  turned  to  his  son  and  clutched  fast  hold 
of  his  hands :  "  Derrick ! "  he  shrieked. 

Derrick  could  not  speak,  but  he  bent  low 
over  the  bed  as  though  to  screen  the  dying  eyes 
from  those  horrible  visions,  and  with  an  odd  sort 
of  thrill  I  saw  him  embrace  his  father. 

When  he  raised  his  head  the  terror  had  died 
out  of  the  Major's  face ;  all  was  over. 


DERRICK  VAUGHAN-NOVEL1ST.          125 


CHAPTER  IX. 

"  To  duty  firm,  to  conscience  true. 

However  tried  and  pressed, 
In  God's  clear  sight  high  work  we  do, 
If  we  but  do  our  best." 

W.  GASKELL. 

LAWRENCE  came  down  to  the  funeral,  and  I 
took  good  care  that  he  should  hear  all  about  his 
father's  last  hours,  and  I  made  the  solicitor  show 
him  the  unsigned  will.  lie  made  hardly  any 
comment  on  it  till  we  three  were  alone  together. 
Then  with  a  sort  of  kindly  patronage  he  turned 
to  his  brother — Derrick,  it  must  be  remembered, 
was  the  elder  twin — and  said  pityingly,  "Poor 
old  fellow  !  it  was  rather  rough  on  you  that  the 
governor  couldn't  sign  this;  but  never  mind, 
you'll  soon,  no  doubt,  be  earning  a  fortune  by 
your  books  ;  and  besides,  what  does  a  bachelor 
want  with  more  than  you've  already  inherited 
from  our  mother  ?  Whereas,  an  officer  just  go- 
ing to  be  married,  and  with  this  confounded 
reputation  of  hero  to  keep  up,  why,  I  can  tell 
you  he  needs  every  penny  of  it." 


12G         DERRICK  VAUGIIAN— NOVELIST. 

Derrick  looked  at  his  brother  searchingly.  1 
honestly  believe  that  he  didn't  very  much  care 
about  the  money,  but  it  cut  him  to  the  heart  that 
Lawrence  should  treat  him  so  shabbily.  The 
soul  of  generosity  himself,  he  could  not  under- 
stand how  any  one  could  frame  a  speech  so  in- 
fernally mean. 

"  Of  course,"  I  broke  in, "  if  Derrick  liked  to 
go  to  law  he  could  no  doubt  get  his  rights ; 
there  are  three  witnesses  who  can  prove  what 
.was  the  Major's  real  wish." 
i  "I  shall  not  go  to  law,"  said  Derrick,  with  a 
dignity  of  which  I  had  hardly  imagined  him 
capable.  "You  spoke  of  your  marriage,  Law- 
rence ;  is  it  to  be  soon  ?" 

"  This  autumn,  I  hope,"  said  Lawrence ;  "  at 
least,  if  I  can  overcome  Sir  Richard's  ridiculous 
notion  that  a  girl  ought  not  to  marry  till  she's 
twenty-one.  He's  a  most  crotchety  old  fellow, 
that  future  father-in-law  of  mine." 

When  Lawrence  had  first  come  back  from  the 
war  I  had  though  him  wonderfully  improved, 
but  a  long  course  of  spoiling  and  flattery  liar] 
done  him  a  world  of  harm.  He  liked  very  much 
to  be  lionized,  and  to  see  him  now  posing  in 
drawing-rooms,  surrounded  by  a  worshipping 


DERRICK  VAUGUAy— NOVELIST.          127 

throng  of  women,  was    enough  to  sicken  any 
sensible  being. 

As  for  Derrick,  though  he  could  not  be  ex- 
pected to  feel  his  bereavement  in  the  ordinary 
way,  yet  his  father's  death  had  been  a  great 
shock  to  him.  It  was  arranged  that  after  settling 
various  matters  in  Bath  he  should  go  down  to 
stay  with  his  sister  for  a  time,  joining  me  in 
Montague  Street  later  on.  While  he  was  away 
at  Birmingham,  however,  an  extraordinary 
change  came  into1  my  humdrum  life,  and  when 
he  rejoined  me  a  few  weeks  later,  I — selfish 
brute — was  so  overwhelmed  with  the  trouble 
that  had  befallen  me  that  I  thought  very  little 
indeed  of  his  affairs.  He  took  this  quite  as  a 
matter  of  course,  and  what  I  should  have  done 
without  him  I  can't  conceive.  However,  this 
story  concerns  him  and  has  nothing  to  do  with 
my  extraordinary  dilemma,  I  merely  mention  it 
as  a  fact  which  brought  additional  cares  into  his 
life.  All  the  time  he  was  doing  what  could  be 
done  to  help  me  he  was  also  going  tli  rough  a 
most  baffling  and  miserable  time  among  the 
publishers;  for  "At  Strife,"  unlike  its  prede- 
cessor, Wiis  rejected  by  Davison  and  by  five 
other  houses.  Think  of  this,  you  comfort- 


128         DERRICK  VAUGHAN— NOVELIST. 

able  readers,  as  you  lie  back  in  your  easy  chairs 
and  leisurely  turn  the  pages  of  that  popular 
story.  The  book  which  represented  years  of 
study  and  long  hours  of  hard  work  was  first 
burnt  to  a  cinder.  It  was  re-written  with  what 
infinite  pains  and  toil  few  can  understand.  It 
was  then  six  times  tied  up  and  carried  with 
anxiety  and  hope  to  a  publisher's  office,  only  to 
re-appear  six  times  in  Montague  Street,  an  un- 
welcome visitor,  bringing  withif  depression  and 
disappointment. 

Derrick  said  little,  but  suffered  much.  How- 
ever, nothing  daunted  him.  When  it  came  back 
from  the  sixth  publisher  he  took  it  to  a  seventh, 
then  returned  and  wrote  away  like  a  Trojan  at 
his  third  book.  The  one  thing  that  never  failed 
him  was  that  curious  consciousness  that  he  had  to 
write ;  like  the  prophets  of  old,  the  "  burden " 
came  to  him,  and  speak  it  he  must. 

The  seventh  publisher  wrote  a  somewhat 
dubious  letter :  the  book  he  thought  had  great 
merit,  but  unluckily  people  were  prejudiced,  and 
historical  novels  rarely  met  with  success.  How- 
ever, he  was  willing  to  take  the  story,  and  offered 
half  profits,  candidly  admitting  that  he  had  no 
great  hopes  of  a  large  sale.  Derrick  instantly 


DERRICK  VAUGIIAN— NOVELIST.         129 

closed  with  this  offer,  proofs  came  in,  the  book 
appeared,  was  well  received  like  it  predecessor,  fell 
into  the  hands  of  one  of  the  leaders  of  Society,  and, 
to  the  intense  surprise  of  the  publisher,  proved 
to  be  the  novel  of  the  year.  Speedily  a  second 
edition  was  called  for ;  then,  after  a  brief  interval, 
a  third  edition — this  time  a  rational  one-volume 
affair ;  and  the  whole  lot — 6,000  I  believe — went 
off  on  the  day  of  publication.  Derrick  was 
amazed ;  but  he  enjoyed  his  success  very  heartily, 
and  I  think  no  one  could  say,  that  he  had  leapt 
into  fame  at  a  bound. 

Having  devoured  "  At  Strife,"  people  began  to 
discover  the  merits  of  "  Lyn wood's  Heritage  "  ; 
the  libraries  were  besieged  for  it,  and  a  cheap 
edition  was  hastily  published,  and  another  and 
another,  till  the  book,  which  at  first  had  been 
such  a  dead  failure,  rivalled  "  At  Strife."  Truly 
an  author's  career  is  a  curious  thing  ;  and  pre- 
cisely why  the  first  book  failed,  and  the  second 
succeeded,  no  one  could  explain. 

It  amused  me  very  much  to  see  Derrick  turned 
into  a  lion — he  was  so  essentially  un-lionlike. 
People  were  forever  asking  him  how  he  worked, 
and  I  remember  a  very  pretty  girl  setting  upon 


130         DERRICK  VAUGIIAN—  NOVELIST. 

him  once  at  a  dinner-party  with  the  embarrassing 
request — 

"  Now  do  tell  me,  Mr.  Vaughan,  how  do  you 
write  your  stories?  I  wish  you  would  give  me  a 
good  receipt  for  a  novel." 

Derrick  hesitated  uneasily  for  a  minute ;  finally, 
with  a  humorous  smile,  said — 

"  Well,  I  can't  exactly  tell  you,  because,  more 
or  less,  novels  grow ;  but  if  you  want  a  receipt, 
you  might  perhaps  try  after  this  fashion : — Con- 
ceive your  hero,  add  a  sprinkling  of  friends  and 
relatives,  flavor  with  whatever  scenery  or  local 
color  you  please,  carefully  consider  what  circum- 
stances are  most  likely  to  develope  your  man 
into  the  best  he  is  capable  of,  allow  the  whole  to 
simmer  in  your  brain  as  long  as  you  can,  and 
then  serve,  while  hot,  with  ink  upon  white  or 
blue  foolscap,  according  to  taste." 

The  young  lad}'  applauded  the  receipt,  but 
she  sighed  a  little,  and  probably  relinquished  all 
hope  of  concocting  a  novel  herself ;  on  the  whole, 
it  seemed  to  involve  incessant  taking  of  trouble. 

About  this  time  I  remember  too  another  little 
scene,  which  I  enjoyed  amazingly.  I  laugh  now 
when  I  think  of  it.  I  happened  to  be  at  a  huge 
evening  crush,  and,  rather  to  my  surprise,  came 


DERRICK  VAUGUAN— NOVELIST.          131 

across  Lawrence  Vaughan.  We  were  talking 
together,  when  up  came  Connington  of  the 
Foreign  Office.  "  I  say,  Vaughan,"  he  said, 
"  Lord  Remington  -wishes  to  be  introduced  to 
you."  I  watched  the  old  statesman  a  little  curi- 
ously as  he  greeted  Lawrence,  and  listened  to  his 
first  words:  "  Very  glad  to  make  your  acquaint- 
ance, Captain  Vaughan  ;  I  understand  that  the 
author  of  that  grand  novel,  "  At  Strife,"  is  a 
brother  of  yours."  And  poor  Lawrence,  spent  a 
mauvais  quart  d'heure,  inwardly  fuming  I  know 
at  the  idea  that  he,  the  hero  of  Saspataras  Hill, 
should  be  considered  merely  as  "  the  brother  of 
Vaughan,  the  novelist." 

Fate,  or  perhaps  I  should  say  the  effect  of  his 
own  pernicious  actions,  did  not  deal  kindly  just 
now  with  Lawrence.  Somehow  Freda  learnt 
about  that  will,  and,  being  no  bread-and-butter 
miss,  content  meekly  to  adore  her  fiancS  and 
deem  him  faultless,  she  "  up  and  spake  "  on  the 
subject,  and  I  fancy  poor  Lawrence  must  have 
had  another  mauvais  quart  cTheure.  It  \ras  not 
this,  however,  which  led  to  a  final  breach  between 
them ;  it  was  something  which  Sir  Richard  dis- 
covered with  regard  to  Lawrence's  life  at  Dover. 
The  engagement  was  instantly  broken  off,  and 


132         DERRICK  VAUGHAN— NOVELIST, 

Freda,  I  ain  sure,  felt  nothing  but  relief.  She 
went  abroad  for  some  time,  however,  and  we  did 
not  see  her  till  long  after  Lawrence  had  been  com- 
fortably married  to  X1500  a  year  and  a  middle- 
aged  widow  who  had  long  been  a  hero-worship- 
per, and  who,  I  am  told,  never  allowed  any 
visitor  to  leave  the  house  without  making  some 
allusion  to  the  memorable  battle  of  Saspataras 
Hill  and  her  Lawrence's  gallant  action. 

For  the  two  years  following  after  the  Major's 
death,  Derrick  and  I,  as  I  mentioned  before, 
shared  the  rooms  in  Montague  Street.  For  me, 
owing  to  the  trouble  I  spoke  of,  they  were  years 
of  maddening  suspense  and  pain ;  but  what 
pleasure  I  did  manage  to  enjoy  came  entirely 
through  the  success  of  my  friend's  books  and 
from  his  companionship.  It  was  odd  that  from 
the  care  of  his  father  he  should  immediately 
pass  on  to  the  care  of  one  who  had  made  such  a 
disastrous  mistake  as  I  had  made.  But  I  feel 
the  less  compunction  at  the  thought  of  the 
amount  of  sympathy  I  called  for  at  that  time, 
because  I  notice  that  the  giving  of  sympathy  is 
a  necessity  for  Derrick,  and  that  when  the 
troubles  of  other  folk  do  not  immediately  thrust 
themselves  into  his  life  he  carefully  hunts  them 


DERRICK  VAUGHAN— NOVELIST.         133 

up.  During  these  two  years  he  was  reading  for 
the  Bar — not  that  he  ever  expected  to  do  very 
much  as  a  barrister,  but  he  thought  it  well  to 
have  something  to  fall  back  on,  and  declared 
that  the  drudgery  of  the  reading  would  do  him 
good.  He  was  also  writing  as  usual,  and  he 
used  to  spend  two  evenings  a  week  at  White- 
chapel,  where  he  taught  one  of  the  classes  in 
connection  with  Toynbee  Hall,  and  where  he 
gained  that  knowledge  of  East-end  life  which  is 
conspicuous  in  his  third  book — "  Dick  Carew." 
This,  with  an  ever  increasing  and  often  very 
burdensome  correspondence,  brought  to  him  by 
his  books,  and  with  a  fair  share  of  dinners,  "  At 
Homes,"  and  so  forth,  made  his  life  a  full  one. 
In  a  quiet  sort  of  way  I  believe  he  was  happy 
during  this  time.  But  later  on,  when,  my  trouble 
at  an  end,  I  had  migrated  to  a  house  of  my  own, 
and  he  was  left  alone  in  the  Montague  Street 
rooms,  his  spirits  somehow  nagged. 

Fame  is,  after  all,  a  hollow,  unsatisfying  thing 
to  a  man  of  his  nature.  He  heartily  enjoyed  his 
success,  he  delighted  in  hearing  that  his  books 
had  given  pleasure  or  had  been  of  use  to  any 
one,  but  no  public  victory  could  in  the  least 
make  up  to  him  for  the  loss  he  had  suffered  in 


134         DERRICK  VAUGHAN—NOVELICT. 

his  private  life ;  indeed,  I  almost  think  there 
were  times  when  his  triumphs  as  an  author 
seemed  to  him  utterly  worthless — days  of  de- 
pression, when  the  congratulations  of  his  friends 
were  nothing  but  a  mockery.  He  had  gained  a 
striking  success,  it  is  true,  but  he  had  lost  Freda  ; 
he  was  in  the  position  of  the  starving  man  who 
has  received  a  gift  of  bon-bons,  but  so  craves 
for  bread  that  they  half  sicken  him.  I  used  now 
and  then  to  watch  his  face  when,  as  often  hap- 
pened, some  one  said :  "  What  an  enviable  fellow 
you  are,  Vaughan,  to  get  on  like  this  ! "  or, 
"  What  wouldn't  I  give  to  change  places  with 
you  !  "  He  would  invariably  smile  and  turn  the 
conversation  ;  but  there  was  a  look  in  his  eyes 
at  such  times  that  I  hated  to  see — it  always 
made  me  think  of  Mrs.  Browning's  Doem. "  The 
Mask"— 

Behind  no  prison-grate,  she  sa.d- 
Which  slurs  the  sunshine  half  a  ni-*e. 
Live  captives  so  uncomforted 
As  souls  behind  a  smile." 

As  to  the  Merrifields,  there  wa;  no  chance  01 
seeing  them,  for  Sir  Richard  had  gone  to  India 
in  some  official  capacity,  and  no  doubt,  as  every 
one  said,  they  would  take  good  care  to  marry 


DERRICK  VAUGHAN— NOVELIST.         135 

Freda  out  there.  Derrick  had  not  seen  her 
since  that  trying  February  at  Bath,  long  ago. 
Yet  I  fancy  she  was  never  out  of  his  thoughts. 

And  so  the  years  rolled  on,  and  Derrick 
worked  away  steadily,  giving  his  books  to  the 
world,  accepting  the  comforts  and  discomforts  of 
an  author's  life,  laughing  at  the  outrageous 
reports  that  were  in  circulation  about  him,  yet 
occasionally,  I  think,  inwardly  wincing  at  them, 
and  learning  from  the  number  of  begging  letters 
which  he  received,  and  into  which  he  usually 
caused  searching  inquiry  to  be  made,  that  there 
are  in  the  world  a  vast  number  of  undeserving 
poor. 

One  day  I  happened  to  meet  Lady  Probyn  at 
a  garden-party;  it  was  at  the  same  house  on 
Campden  Hill  where  I  had  once  met  Freda,  and 
perhaps  it  was  the  recollection  of  tin's  which 
prompted  me  to  inquire  after  her. 

"  She  has  not  been  well,"  said  Lady  Probyn, 
"and  they  are  sending  her  back  to  England; 
the  climate  doesn't  suit  her.  She  is  to  make 
her  home  with  us  for  the  present,  so  I  am  the 
gainer.  Freda  has  always  been  my  favorite 
niece,  I  don't  know  what  it  is  about  her  that  is 
so  taking ;  she  is  not  half  so  pretty  as  the  otiiers." 


136         DERRICK  VAUGHAN— NOVELIST. 

"But  so  much  more  charming,"!  said.  "I 
wonder  she  has  not  married  out  in  India,  as 
every  one  prophesied." 

"And  so  do  I,"  said  her  aunt.  "However, 
poor  child,  no  doubt,  after  having  been  two  years 
engaged  to  that  very  disappointing  hero  of 
Saspataras  Hill,  she  will  be  shy  of  venturing  to 
trust  any  one  again." 

"Do  you  think  that  affair  ever  went  very 
deep?"  I  ventured  to  ask.  "It  seemed  to  me 
that  she  looked  miserable  during  her  engage- 
ment, and  happy  when  it  was  broken  off." 

"Quite  so,"  said  Lady  Probyn;  "I  noticed 
the  same  thing.  It  was  nothing  but  a  mistake. 
They  were  not  in  the  least  suited  to  each  other. 
By-the-by,  I  hear  that  Derrick  Vaughan  is 
married." 

"  Derrick  ?  "  I  exclaimed  ;  "  oh,  no,  that  is  a 
mistake.  It  is  merely  one  of  the  hundred  and 
one  reports  that  are  forever  being  set  afloat 
about  him." 

"  But  I  saw  it  in  a  paper,  I  assure  you,"  said 
Lady  Probyn,  by  no  means  convinced. 

"  Ah,  that  may  very  well  be ;  they  were  hard 
up  for  a  paragraph,  no  doubt,  and  inserted  it. 
But,  as  for  Derrick,  why,  how  should  he  marry? 


DERRICK  VAUGHAN— NOVELIST.         137 

He  has  been  madly  in  love  with  Miss  Merrifield 
ever  since  our  cruise  in  the  Aurora.  " 

Lady  Probyn  made  an  inarticulate  exclama- 
tion. 

"  Poor  fellow  !  "  she  said,  after  a  minute's 
thought ;  "  that  explains  much  to  me. " 

She  did  not  explain  her  rather  ambiguous  re- 
mark, and  before  long  our  tete-a-tete  was  in- 
terrupted. 

Now  that  my  friend  was  a  full-fledged  barrister, 
he  and  I  shared  chambers ;  and  one  morning, 
about  a  month  after  this  garden  party,  Derrick 
came  in  with  face  of  such  radiant  happiness,  that 
I  couldn't  imagine  what  good  luck  had  befallen 
him. 

"  What  do  you  think?  "  he  exclaimed ;  "  here's 
an  invitation  for  a  criuse  in  the  Aurora  at  the 
end  of  August — to  be  nearly  the  same  party 
that  we  had  years  ago,"  and  he  threw  down  the 
letter  for  me  to  read. 

Of  course  there  was  a  special  mention  of  "  my 
niece,  Miss  Merrifield,  who  has  just  returned 
from  India,  and  is  ordered  plenty  of  sea-air."  I 
could  have  told  that  without  reading  the  letter, 
for  it  was  written  quite  clearly  in  Derrick's  face. 
He  looked  ten  years  younger,  and  if  any  of  his 


138        DERRICK  VAUGHAN— NOVELIST. 

adoring  readers  could  have  seen  the  pranks  ho 
was  up  to  that  morning  in  our  staid  and  respects- 
able  chambers,  I  am  afraid  they  would  no  longer 
have  spoken  of  him  "  with  'bated  breath  and 
whispering  humbleness." 

As  it  happened,  I  too  was  able  to  leave  home 
for  a  fortnight  at  the  end  of  August ;  and  so  our 
party  in  the  Aurora  really  was  the  same,  except 
that  we  were  all  several  years  older,  and  let  us 
hope  wiser,  than  on  the  previous  occasion.  Con- 
sidering all  that  had  intervened,  I  was  surprised 
that  Derrick  was  not  more  altered  ;  as  for  Freda, 
she  was  decidedly  paler  than  when  we  first  met 
her,  but,  before  long,  sea-air  and  happiness 
wrought  a  wonderful  transformation  in  her. 

In  spite  of  the  pessimists  who  are  forever 
writing  books — even  writing  novels  (more  shame 
to  them)  to  prove  that  there  is  no  such  thing  as 
happiness  in  the  world,  we  managed  every  one 
of  us  heartily  to  enjoy  our  cruise.  It  seemed 
indeed  true  that — 

'*  Green  leaves  ami  blossoms,  and  sunny  warm  weather, 
And  singing  and  loving  all  come  back  together." 

Something,  at  any  rate,  of  the  glamour  of 
those  past  days  came  back  to  us  all,  I  fancy,  as 


DERRICK  VAUGH AN— NOVELIST.         139 

we  laughed  and  dozed  and  idled  and  talked  be- 
neath the  snowy  wings  of  the  Aurora;  and  I 
cannot  say  I  was  in  the  least  surprised  when,  on 
roaming  through  the  pleasant  garden  walks  in 
that  unique  little  island  of  Tresco,  I  came  once 
more  upon  Derrick  and  Freda,  with,  if  you  will 
believe  it,  another  handful  of  white  heather 
given  to  them  by  that  discerning  gardener  ! 
Freda  once  more  reminded  me  of  the  girl  in  the 
"  Biglow  Papers,"  and  Derrick's  face  was  full  of 
such  bliss  as  one  seldom  sees. 

He  had  always  had  to  wait  for  his  good 
things,  but  in  the  end  they  came  to  him.  How- 
ever, you  may  depend  upon  it  he  didn't  say 
much.  That  was  never  his  way.  He  only 
gripped  my  hand,  and  with  his  eyes  all  aglow 
with  happiness,  exclaimed,  "  Congratulate  me, 
old  fellow  1" 

THE  END. 


THE  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 


DEDICATED 

TO  ALL 
WHOM  IT  MAY  CONCERN 


Trust  not  to  each  accusing  tongue. 

As  most  weak  persons  do ; 
But  still  believe  that  story  false 

Which  ought  not  to  be  true. 

SHERIDA::. 


THE  AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF 
A  SLANDER. 


MY  FIRST  STAGE. 

At  last  the  tea  came  up,  and  so 
With  that  our  tongues  began  to  go. 
Now  in  that  house  you're  sure  of  knowing 
The  smallest  scrap  of  news  that's  going. 
We  find  it  there  the  wisest  way 
To  take  some  care  of  what  we  say. 

— Recreation,  JANE  TAYLOR. 

I  WAS  born  on  September  2,  1886,  in  a  small, 
dull,  country  town.  When  I  say  the  town  was 
dull,  I  moan,  of  course,  that  the  inhabitants 
were  unenterprising1,  for  in  itself  Muddleton 
was,  a  picturesque  place,  and  though  it  labored 
under  the  usual  disadvantage  of  a  dearth  of 
bachelors  and  a  superfluity  of  spinsters,  it 
might  have  been  pleasant  enough  had  it  not 
been  a  favorite  resort  for  my  kith  and  kin. 

My  father  has  long  enjoyed  a  world- wide 
notoriety  ;  he  is  not,  however,  as  a  rule,  named 
in  good  society,  though  he  habitually  frequents 


6      THE  AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  A  SLANDER. 

it ;  and  as  I  am  led  to  believe  that  my  autobiog- 
raphy will  possibly  be  circulated  by  Mr.  Mudie, 
and  will  lie  about  on  drawing-room  tables,  I 
will  merely  mention  that  a  most  striking  repre- 
sentation of  my  progenitor,  under  his  nom  de 
thedtre,  Mephistopheles,  may  be  seen  now  in 
London,  and  I  should  recommend  all  who  wish 
to  understand  his  character  to  go  to  the  Lyceum, 
though,  between  ourselves,  he  strongly  disap- 
proves of  the  whole  performance. 

I  was  introduced  into  the  world  by  an  old 
lady  named  Mrs.  O'Reilly.  She  was  a  very 
pleasant  old  lady,  the  wife  of  a  general,  and  one 
of  those  sociable,  friendly,  talkative  people  who 
do  much  to  cheer  their  neighbors,  particularly 
in  a  deadly -lively  provincial  place  like  Muddle- 
ton,  where  the  standard  of  social  intercourse  is 
not  very  high.  Mrs.  O'Reilly  had  been  in  her 
day  a  celebrated  beauty;  she  was  now  gray- 
haired  and  stout,  but  still  there  was  something 
impressive  about  her,  and  few  could  resist  tho 
charm  of  her  manner  and  the  pleasant,  easy  flow 
of  her  small  talk.  Her  love  of  gossip  amounted 
almost  to  a  passion,  and  nothing  came  amiss  to 
her ;  she  liked  to  know  every  tiling  about  every- 
body, and  in  the  main  I  think  her  interest  was  a 
kindly  one.  though  she  found  that  a  little  bit  of 


THE  AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  A  SLANDER.      7 

scandal,  every  now  and  then,  added  a  piquant 
flavor  to  the  homely  fare  provided  by  the  com- 
monplace life  of  the  Muddletonians. 

I  will  now,  without  further  preamble,  begin 
the  history  of  my  life. 

"  I  assure  you,  my  dear  Lena,  Mr.  Zaluski  is 
nothing  less  than  a  Nihilist !  " 

The  sound-waves  set  in  motion  by  Mrs. 
O'Reilly's  words  were  tumultuously  heaving  in 
the  atmosphere  when  I  sprung  into  being,  a 
young  but  perfectly  formed  and  most  promising 
slander.  A  delicious  odor  of  tea  pervaded  the 
drawing-room,  it  was  orange-flower  pekoe,  and 
Mrs.  O'Reilly  was  just  handing  one  of  the  deli- 
cate Crown  Derby  cups  to  her  visitor,  Miss 
Lena  Houghton. 

"  What  a  shocking  thing !  Do  you  really 
mean  it  ? "  exclaimed  Miss  Houghton.  "  Thank 
you — cream,  but  no  sugar ;  don't  you  know,  Mrs. 
O'Reilly,  that  it  is  only  Low-Church  people 
who  take  sugar  nowadays  ?  But,  really,  now, 
about  Mr.  Zaluski.  How  did  you  find  it  out  * " 

"  My  dear,  I  am  an  old  woman,  and  I  have 
learned  in  the  course  of  a  wandering  life  to  put 
two  and  two  together,"  said  Mrs.  O'Reilly. 
She  had  somehow  managed  to  ignore  middle 


8      THE  AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  A  SLANDER. 

age,  and  had  passed  from  her  position  of  re- 
nowned beauty  to  the  position  which  she  now 
firmly  and  constantly  claimed  of  many  years 
and  much  experience.  "Of  course,"  she  con- 
tinued, "  like  every  one  else,  I  was  glad  enough 
to  be  friendly  and  pleasant  to  Sigismund 
Zaluski ;  and  as  to  his  being  a  Pole,  why,  I 
think  it  rather  pleased  me  than  otherwise.  You 
see,  my  dear,  I  have  knocked  about  the  world 
and  mixed  with  all  kinds  of  people.  Still,  one 
must  draw  the  line  somewhere,  and  I  confess 
it  gave  me  a  very  painful  shock  to  find  that  he 
had  such  violent  antipathies  to  law  and  order. 
When  he  took  Ivy  Cottage  for  the  summer  I 
made  the  general  call  at  once,  and  before  long 
we  had  become  very  intimate  with  him ;  but, 
my  dear,  he's  not  what  I  thought  him — not  at 
all!" 

"  Well,  now,  I  am  delighted  to  hear  you  say 
that,"  said  Lena  Houghton,  with  some  excite- 
ment in  her  manner,  "  for  it  exactly  fits  in  with 
what  I  always  felt  about  him.  From  the  first  I 
disliked  that  man,  and  the  way  he  goes  on  with 
Gertrude  Morley  is  simply  dreadful.  If  they 
are  not  engaged  they  ought  to  be  ;  that's  all  I 
can  say." 

"  Engaged,  my  dear !    I  trust  not,"  said  Mrs. 


THE  AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  A  SLANDER.      9 

O'Reilly.  "  I  had  always  hoped  for  something- 
very  different  for  dear  Gertrude.  Quite  be- 
tween ourselves,  you  know,  my  nephew,  John 
Carew,  is  over  head  and  ears  in  love  with  her, 
and  they  would  make  a  very  good  pair ;  don't 
you  think  so  ?  " 

"  Well,  you  see,  I  like  Gertrude  to  a  certain 
extent,"  replied  Lena  Houghton.  "  But  I  never 
raved  about  her  as  so  many  people  do.  Still, 
I  hope  she  will  not  be  entrapped  into  marry- 
ing Mr.  Zaluski ;  she  deserves  a  better  fate 
than  that." 

"  I  quite  agree  with  you,"  said  Mrs.  O'Reilly, 
with  a  troubled  look.  "  And  the  worst  of  it  is, 
Gertrude  is  a  girl  who  might  very  likely  take 
up  foolish  revolutionary  notions;  she  needs  a 
strong,  wise  husband  to  keep  her  in  order  and 
form  her  opinions.  But  is  it  really  true  that  he 
flirts  with  her  ?  This  is  the  first  I  have  heard  of 
it.  I  can't  think  how  it  has  escaped  my  notice." 

"  Nor  I,  for  indeed  he  is  up  at  the  Morleys' 
pretty  nearly  every  day.  What  with  tennis,  and 
music,  and  riding,  there  is  always  some  excuse 
for  it.  I  can't  think  what  Gertrude  sees  in  him, 
he  is  not  even  good-looking." 

"  There  is  a  certain  surface  good-nature  about 
him,"  said  Mrs.  O'Reilly.  "  It  deceived  even  me 


10    THE  AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  A  SLANDER. 

at  first.  But,  my  dear  Lena,  mark  my  words : 
that  man  has  a  fearful  temper;  and  I  pray 
Heaven  that  poor  Gertrude  may  have  her  eyes 
opened  in  time.  Besides,  to  think  of  that  lit- 
tle, gentle,  delicate  thing  marrying  a  Nihilist ! 
It  is  too  dreadful;  really,  quite  too  dreadful! 
John  would  never  get  over  it !  " 

"  The  thing  I  can't  understand  is  why  all  the 
world  has  taken  him  up  so,"  said  Lena  Hough- 
ton.  "  One  meets  him  everywhere,  yet  nobody 
seems  to  know  anything  about  him.  Just  be- 
cause ho  has  taken  Ivy  Cottage  for  four  months, 
and  because  he  seems  to  be  rich  and  good- 
natured,  every  one  is  ready  to  run  after  him." 

"Well,  well,"  said  Mrs.  O'Reilly,  "we  all 
like  to  be  neighborly,  my  dear,  and  a  week  ago 
I  should  have  been  ready  to  say  nothing  but 
good  of  him.  But  now  my  eyes  have  been 
opened.  I'll  tell  you  just  how  it  was.  We  were 
Bitting  here,  just  as  you  and  I  are  now,  at  after- 
jioon  tea ;  the  talk  had  flagged  a  little,  and  for 
the  sake  of  something  to  say  I  made  some  re- 
mark about  Bulgaria — not  that  I  really  knew 
anything  about  it,  you  know,  for  I'm  no  politi- 
cian ;  still,  I  knew  it  was  a  subject  that  would 
make  talk  just  now.  My  dear,  I  assure  you  I 
was  positively  frightened.  All  in  a  minute  his 


THE  AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  A  SLANDER.    11 

face  changed,  his  eyes  flashed,  he  broke  into 
such  a  torrent  of  abuse  as  I  never  heard  in  my 
life  before." 

"  Do  you  mean  that  he  abused  you  ?  " 
"  Dear  me,  no ;  but  Russia  and  the  czar,  and 
tyranny,  and  despotism,  and  many  other  things 
I  had  never  heard  of.  I  tried  to  calm  him  down 
and  reason  with  him,  but  I  might  as  well  have 
reasoned  with  the  cockatoo  in  the  window.  At 
last  he  caught  himself  up  quickly  in  the  middle 
of  a  sentence,  strode  over  to  the  piano,  and  be- 
gan to  play,  as  he  generally  does,  you  know, 
when  he  comes  here.  Well,  would  you  believe 
it,  my  dear !  instead  of  improvising  or  playing 
operatic  airs  as  usual,  he  began  to  play  a  stupid 
little  tune  which  every  child  was  taught  years 
ago,  of  course  with  variations  of  his  own.  Then 
he  turned  round  on  the  music-stool,  with  the 
oddest  smile  I  ever  saw,  and  said,  'Do  you 
know  that  air,  Mrs.  O'Reilly  ? '  " 
"  Yes,"  I  said ;  "  but  I  forget  now  what  it  is." 
"  It  was  composed  by  Festal,  one  of  the  vic- 
tims of  Russian  tyranny,"  said  he.  "  The  execu- 
tioner did  his  work  badly,  and  Festal  had  to  be 
strung  up  twice.  In  the  interval  he  was  heard 
to  mutter,  '  Stupid  country,  where  they  don't 
even  know  how  to  hang ! '  Then  he  gave  a  lit- 


12    THE  AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  A  SLANDER. 

tie  forced  laugh,  got  up  quickly,  wished  me 
good-by,  and  was  gone  before  I  could  put  in  a 
word." 

"  What  a  horrible  story  to  tell  in  a  drawing- 
room  ! "  said  Lena  Houghton.  "  I  envy  Ger- 
trude less  than  ever." 

"  Poor  girl !  What  a  sad  prospect  it  is  for 
her!"  said  Mrs.  O'Eeilly,  with  a  sigh.  "Of 
course,  my  dear,  you'll  not  repeat  what  I  have 
just  told  you." 

"  Not  for  the  world !  "  said  Lena  Houghton, 
emphatically.  "It  is  perfectly  safe  with  me." 

The  conversation  was  here  abruptly  ended, 
for  the  page  threw  open  the  drawing-room  door 
and  announced  "  Mr.  Zaluski." 

"  Talk  of  the  angel,"  murmured  Mrs.  O'Reil- 
ly, with  a  significant  smile  at  her  companion. 
Then  skilfully  altering  the  expression  of  her 
face,  she  beamed  graciously  on  the  guest,  who 
was  ushered  into  the  room,  and  Lena  Hough- 
ton  also  prepared  to  greet  him  most  pleasantly. 

I  looked  with  much  interest  at  Sigismund 
Zaluski,  and,  as  I  looked  I  partly  understood 
why  Miss  Houghton  had  been  prejudiced 
against  him  at  first  sight.  He  had  lived  five 
years  in  England,  and  nothing  pleased  him  more 
than  to  be  taken  for  an  Englishman.  He  had 


THE  AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  A  SLANDER.    13 

had  his  silky  black  hair  closely  cropped  in  the 
very  hideous  fashion  of  the  present  day ;  he  wore 
the  ostentatiously  high  collar  now  in  vogue; 
and  he  tried  to  be  sedulously  English  in  every 
respect.  But  in  spite  of  his  wonderfully  fluent 
speech  and  almost  perfect  accent,  there  lingered 
about  him  something  which  would  not  harmo- 
nize with  that  ideal  of  an  English  gentleman 
which  is  latent  in  most  minds.  Something  he 
lacked,  something  he  possessed,  which  inter- 
fered with  the  part  he  desired  to  play.  The 
something  lacking  showed  itself  in  his  inerad- 
icable love  of  jewelry  and  in  a  transparent  hab- 
it of  fibbing ;  the  something  possessed  showed 
itself  in  his  easy  grace  of  movement,  his  de- 
lightful readiness  to  amuse  and  to  be  amused, 
and  in  a  certain  cleverness  and  rapidity  of  idea 
rarely,  if  ever,  found  in  an  Englishman. 

He  was  a  little  above  the  average  height  and 
very  finely  built ;  but  there  was  nothing  strik- 
ing in  his  aquiline  features  and  dark-gray  eyes, 
and  I  think  Miss  Houghton  spoke  truly  when 
she  said  that  he  was  "  Not  even  good-looking." 
Still,  in  spite  of  this,  it  was  a  face  which  grew 
upon  most  people,  and  I  felt  the  least  little  bit 
of  regret  as  I  looked  at  him,  because  I  knew 
that  I  should  persistently  haunt  and  harass 


14    THE  AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  A  SLANDER. 

him,  and  should  do  all  that  could  be  done  to 
spoil  his  life. 

Apparently  he  had  forgotten  all  about  Russia 
and  Bulgaria,  for  he  looked  radiantly  happy. 
Clearly  his  thoughts  were  engrossed  with  his 
own  affairs,  which,  in  other  words,  meant  with 
Gertrude  Morley ;  and  though,  as  I  have  since 
observed,  there  are  times  when  a  man  in  love  is 
an  altogether  intolerable  sort  of  being,  there  are 
other  times  when  he  is  very  much  improved  by 
the  passion,  and  regards  the  whole  world  with 
a  genial  kindness  which  contrasts  strangely  with 
his  previous  cool  cynicism. 

"  How  delightful  and  home-like  your  room 
always  looks !  "  he  exclaimed,  taking  the  cup 
of  tea  which  Mrs.  O'Reilly  handed  to  him.  "  I 
am  horribly  lonely  at  Ivy  Cottage.  This  house 
is  a  sort  of  oasis  in  the  desert." 

"  Why,  you  are  hardly  ever  at  home,  I 
thought,"  said  Mrs.  O'Reilly,  smiling.  "You 
are  the  lion  of  the  neighborhood  just  now  ;  and 
I'm  sure  it  is  very  good  of  you  to  come  in  and 
cheer  a  lonely  old  woman.  Are  you  going  to 
play  me  something  rather  more  lively  to-day  1 " 

He  laughed. 

"Ah!  Poor  Festal !  I  had  forgotten  all  about 
our  last  meeting." 


THE  AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  A  SLANDER.    15 

"  You  were  very  much  excited  that  day,"  said 
Mrs.  O'Reilly.  "  I  had  no  idea  that  your  poli- 
tical notions — 

He  interrupted  her. 

"  Ah !  no  politics  to-day,  dear  Mrs.  O'Reilly. 
Let  us  have  nothing  but  enjoyment  and  har- 
mony. See,  now,  I  will  play  you  something 
very  much  more  cheerful." 

And  sitting  down  to  the  piano,  he  played  the 
bridal  march  from  "  Lohengrin,"  then  wandered 
off  into  an  improvised  air,  and  finally  treated 
them  to  some  recollections  of  the  "  Mikado." 

Lena  Houghton  watched  him  thoughtfully  as 
she  put  on  her  gloves ;  he  was  playing  with 
great  spirit,  and  the  words  of  the  opera  rang  in 
her  ears : 

"  For  he's  going  to  marry  Yum-Ynm,  Yum- Yum, 
And  so  you  had  better  be  dumb,  dumb,  dumb !" 

I  knew  well  enough  that  she  would  not  follow 
this  moral  advice,  and  I  laughed  to  myself  be- 
cause the  whole  scene  was  such  a  hollow  mock- 
ery. The  placid,  benevolent-looking  old  lady 
leaning  back  in  her  arm-chair  ;  the  girl  in  her 
blue  gingham  and  straw  hat  preparing  to  go  to 
the  afternoon  service;  the  happy  lover  enter- 
ing heart  and  soul  into  Sullivan's  charming 


1G    THE  AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  A  SLANDER. 

music ;  the  pretty  room,  with  its  Chippendale 
furniture,  its  aesthetic  hanging's,  its  bowls  of 
roses;  and  the  sound  of  church  bells  wafted 
through  the  open  window  on  the  soft  summer 
breeze. 

Yet  all  the  time  I  lingered  there  unseen,  car- 
rying with  me  all  sorts  of  dread  possibilities. 
I  had  been  introduced  into  the  world,  and  even 
if  Mrs.  O'Reilly  had  been  willing  to  admit  to 
herself  that  she  had  broken  the  ninth  com- 
mandment, and  had  earnestly  desired  to  recall 
me,  all  her  sighs  and  tears  and  regrets  would 
have  availed  nothing ;  so  true  is  the  saying, 
"  Of  thy  words  unspoken  thou  art  master ;  thy 
spoken  word  is  master  of  thee." 

"  Thank  you."  "  Thank  you."  "  How  I  envy 
your  power  of  playing !  " 

The  two  ladies  seemed  to  vie  with  each  other 
in  making  pretty  speeches,  and  Zaluski,  who 
loved  music  and  loved  giving  pleasure,  looked 
really  pleased.  I  am  sure  it  did  not  enter  his 
head  that  his  two  companions  were  not  sincere, 
or  that  they  did  not  wish  him  well.  He  was 
thinking  to  himself  how  simple  and  kindly  the 
Muddleton  people  were,  and  how  great  a  con- 
trast this  life  was  to  his  life  in  London ;  and 
he  was  saying  to  himself  that  he  had  been  a 


THE  AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  A  SLANDER.    17 

fool  to  live  a  lonely  bachelor  life  till  he  was 
nearly  thirty,  and  yet  congratulating  himself 
that  he  had  done  so,  since  Gertrude  was  but 
nineteen.  Undoubtedly  he  was  seeing  blissful 
visions  of  the  future  all  the  time  that  he  replied 
to  the  pretty  speeches,  and  shook  hands  with 
Lena  Houghton,  and  opened  the  drawing-room 
door  for  her,  and  took  out  his  watch  to  assure 
her  that  she  had  plenty  of  time  and  need  not 
hurry  to  church. 

Poor  Zaluski !  He  looked  so  kindly  and 
pleasant.  Though  I  was  only  a  slander,  and 
might  have  been  supposed  to  have  no  heart  at 
all,  I  did  feel  sorry  for  him  when  I  thought  of 
the  future  and  of  the  grief  and  pain  which 
would  persistently  dog  his  steps. 


MY  SECOND  STAGE. 

Bear  not  false  witness,  slander  not,  nor  lie ; 
Truth  is  the  speech  of  inward  purity. 

—  The  Light  of  Asia. 

IN  my  first  stage  the  reader  will  perceive 
that  I  was  a  comparatively  weak  and  harmless 
little  slander,  with  merely  that  taint  of  orig- 
inal sin  which  was  to  be  expected  in  one  of  such 
parentage.  But  I  developed  with  great  rapid- 


18    THE  AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  A  SLANDER. 

ity  ;  and  I  believe  men  of  science  will  tell  you 
that  this  is  always  the  case  with  low  organisms. 
That,  for  instance,  while  it  takes  years  to  de- 
velop the  man  from  the  baby,  and  months  to 
develop  the  dog-  from  the  puppy,  the  baby 
monad  will  grow  to  maturity  in  an  hour. 

Personally  I  should  have  preferred  to  linger 
in  Mrs.  O'Reilly's  pleasant  drawing-room,  for, 
as  I  said  before,  my  victim  interested  me,  and  I 
wanted  to  observe  him  more  closely  and  hear 
what  he  talked  about.  But  I  received  orders  to 
attend  even- song  at  the  parish  church,  and  to 
haunt  the  mind  of  Lena  Houghtou. 

As  we  passed  down  the  High  Street  the  bells 
rang  out  loud  and  clear,  and  they  made  me  feel 
the  same  slight  sense  of  discomfort  that  I  had 
felt  when  I  looked  at  Zaluski ;  however,  I  went 
on,  and  soon  entered  the  church.  It  was  a  fine 
old  Gothic  building,  and  the  afternoon  sunshine 
seemed  to  flood  the  whole  place  ;  even  the  white 
stones  in  the  aisle  were  glorified  here  and  there 
with  gorgeous  patches  of  color  from  the  stained- 
glass  windows.  But  the  strange  stillness  and 
quiet  oppressed  me,  I  did  not  feel  nearly  so 
much  at  home  as  in  Mrs.  O'Reilly's  drawing- 
room — to  use  a  terrestrial  simile,  I  felt  like  a 
fish  out  of  water. 


THE  AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  A  SLANDER.    10 

For  some  time,  too,  I  could  find  no  entrance 
at  all  into  the  mind  of  Lena  Houghton.  Try  as 
I  would,  I  could  not  distract  her  attention  or 
gain  the  slightest  hold  upon  her,  and  I  really 
believe  I  should  have  been  altogether  baffled, 
had  not  the  rector  unconsciously  come  to  my 
aid. 

All  through  the  prayers  and  psalms  I  had 
fought  a  desperate  fight  without  gaining  a 
single  inch.  Then  the  rector  walked  over  to 
the  lecturn,  and  the  moment  he  opened  his 
mouth  I  knew  that  my  time  had  come,  and  that 
there  was  a  very  fair  chance  of  victory  before 
me.  Whether  this  clergyman  had  a  toothache, 
or  a  headache,  or  a  heavy  load  on  his  mind,  I 
cannot  say,  but  his  reading  was  more  lugubri- 
ous than  the  wind  in  an  equinoctial  gale.  I 
have  since  observed  that  he  was  only  a  degree 
worse  than  many  other  clerical  readers,  and 
that  a  strange  and  delightfully  mistaken  notion 
seems  prevalent  that  the  Bible  must  be  read  in 
a  dreary  and  unnatural  tone  of  voice,  or  with  a 
sort  of  mournful  monotony  ;  it  is  intended  as  a 
sort  of  reverence,  but  I  suspect  that  it  often 
plays  into  the  hands  of  my  progenitor,  as  it 
most  assuredly  did  in  the  present  instance. 

Hardly  had  the  rector  announced,  "  Here  be- 


20    THE  AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  A  SLANDER. 

ginneth  the  forty-fourth  verse  of  the  sixteenth 
chapter  of  the  book  of  the  Prophet  Ezekiel," 
than  a  sort  of  relaxation  took  place  in  the  mind 
I  was  attacking.  Lena  Houghton's  attention 
could  only  have  been  given  to  the  drearily  read 
lesson  by  a  very  great  effort;  she  was  a  little 
lazy  and  did  not  make  the  effort ;  she  thought 
how  nice  it  was  to  sit  down  again,  and  then  the 
melancholy  voice  lulled  her  into  a  vague  interval 
of  thoughtless  inactivity.  I  promptly  seized  my 
opportunity,  and  in  a  moment  her  whole  mind 
was  full  of  me.  She  was  an  excitable,  impres- 
sionable sort  of  girl,  and  when  once  I  had  ob- 
tained an  entrance  into  her  mind  I  found 
it  the  easiest  thing  in  the  world  to  dominate 
her  thoughts.  Though  she  stood,  and  sat,  and 
knelt,  and  courtesied,  and  articulated  words, 
her  thoughts  were  entirely  absorbed  in  me.  I 
crowded  out  the  "  Magnificat "  with  a  picture  of 
Zaluski  and  Gertrude  Morley.  I  led  her 
through  more  terrible  future  possibilities  in  the 
second  lesson  than  would  be  required  for  a 
three-volume  novel.  I  entirely  eclipsed  the 
collects  with  reflections  on  unhappy  marriages  ; 
took  her  off  vid  Russia  and  Nihilism  in  the 
state  prayers,  and  by  the  time  we  arrived  at  St. 
Chrysostom  had  become  so  powerful  that  I  had 


THE  AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  A  SLANDER.    21 

worked  her  mind  into  exactly  the  condition  I 
desired. 

The  congregation  rose.  LenaHoughton,  still 
dominated  by  me,  knelt  longer  than  the  rest, 
but  at  last  she  got  up  and  walked  down  the 
aisle,  and  I  felt  a  great  sense  of  relief  and  sat- 
isfaction. We  were  out  in  the  open  air  once 
more,  and  I  had  triumphed  ;  I  was  quite  sure 
that  she  would  tell  the  first  person  she  met,  for, 
as  I  have  said  before,  she  was  entirely  taken  up 
with  me,  and  to  have  kept  me  to  herself  would 
have  required  far  more  strength  and  unselfish- 
ness than  she  at  that  moment  possessed.  She 
walked  slowly  through  the  church-yard,  feeling 
much  pleased  to  see  that  the  curate  had  just 
left  the  vestry  door,  and  that  in  a  few  moments 
their  paths  must  converge. 

Mr.  Blackthorne  had  only  been  ordained  three 
or  four  years,  and  was  a  little  younger,  and 
much  less  experienced  in  the  ways  of  the  world, 
than  Sigismund  Zaluski.  He  was  a  good,  well- 
meaning  fellow,  a  little  narrow,  a  little  preju- 
diced, a  little  spoiled  by  the  devotion  of  the  dis- 
trict visitors  and  Sunday-school  teachers  ;  but 
he  was  honest  and  energeti'c,  and  as  a  worker 
among  the  poor  few  could  have  equalled  him. 
He  scorned  to  fancy,  however,  that  with  the 


22    THE  AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  A  SLANDER. 

poor  his  work  ended,  and  he  was  not  always  so 
wise  as  he  might  have  been  in  Muddleton  so- 
ciety. 

"Good-afternoon,  Miss  Houghton,"  he  ex- 
claimed. "  Do  you  happen  to  know  if  your 
brother  is  at  home  ?  I  want  just  to  speak  to 
him  about  the  choir  treat." 

"  Oh,  he  is  sure  to  be  in  by  this  time,"  said 
Lena. 

And  they  walked  home  together. 

"  I  am  so  glad  to  have  this  chance  of  speak- 
ing to  you,"  she  began,  rather  nervously.  "  I 
wanted  particularly  to  ask  your  advice." 

Mr.  Blackthorne,  being  human  and  young, 
was  not  unnaturally  flattered  by  this  remark. 
True,  he  was  becoming  well  accustomed  to  this 
sort  of  thing,  since  the  ladies  of  Muddleton 
were  far  more  fond  of  seeking  advice  from  the 
young  and  good-looking  curate  than  from  the 
elderly  and  experienced  rector.  They  said  it 
was  because  Mr.  Blackthorne  was  so  much  more 
sympathetic,,  and  understood  the  difficulties  of 
the  day  so  much  better ;  but  I  think  they  un- 
consciously deceived  themselves,  for  the  rector 
was  one  of  a  thousand,  and  the  curate,  though 
he  had  in  him  the  makings  of  a  fine  man,  was 
as  yet  altogether  crude  and  young. 


THE  AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  A  SLANDER.    23 

"  Was  it  about  anything  in  your  district  ? " 
he  asked,  devoutly  hoping  that  she  was  not 
going-  to  propound  some  difficult  question  about 
the  origin  of  evil,  or  any  other  obscure  sub- 
ject. For  though  he  liked  the  honor  of  being 
consulted,  he  did  not  always  like  the  trouble  it  in- 
volved, and  he  remembered  with  a  shudder  that 
Miss  Houghton  had  once  asked  him  his  opinion 
about  the  "  Ethical  Concept  of  the  Good." 

"It  was  only  that  I  was  so  troubled  about 
something  Mrs.  O'Reilly  has  just  told  me," 
said  Lena  Houghton.  "  You  won't  tell  any  one 
that  I  told  you  ?  " 

"  On  uo  account,"  said  the  curate,  warmly. 

"  Well,  you  know  Mr.  Zaluski,  and  how  the 
Morleys  have  taken  him  up  ?  " 

"  Every  one  has  taken  him  up,"  said  the  cu- 
rate, with  the  least  little  touch  of  resentment  in 
his  tone.  "  I  knew  that  the  Morleys  were  his 
special  friends ;  I  imagine  that  he  admires  Miss 
Morley." 

"  Yes,  every  one  thinks  they  are  either  en- 
gaged or  on  the  brink  of  it.  And  oh !  Mr. 
Blackthorne,  can't  you  or  somebody  put  a  stop 
to  it,  for  it  seems  such  a  dreadful  fate  for  poor 
Gertrude  ?  " 

The  curate  looked  startled. 


24    THE  AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  A  SLANDER. 

"  Why,  I  don't  profess  to  like  Mr.  Zaluski," 
he  said.  "But  I  don't  know  anything1  exactly 
against  him." 

"  But  I  do.  Mrs.  O'Reilly  has  just  been  tell- 
ing me." 

"What  did  she  tell  you?"  he  asked,  with 
some  curiosity. 

"  Why,  she  has  found  out  that  he  is  really  a 
Nihilist — just  think  of  a  Nihilist  going  about 
loose  like  this  and  playing  tennis  at  the  rectory 
and  all  the  good  houses !  And  not  only  that, 
but  she  says  he  is  altogether  a  dangerous,  un- 
principled man,  with  a  dreadful  temper.  You 
can't  think  how  unhappy  she  is  about  poor 
Gertrude,  and  so  am  I,  for  we  were  at  school 
together  and  have  always  been  friends." 

"I  am  very  sorry  to  hear  about  it,"  said  Mr. 
Blackthorne,  "but  I  don't  see  that  anything 
can  be  done.  You  see,  one  does  not  like  to  in- 
terfere in  these  sort  of  things.  It  seems  offi- 
cious rather,  and  meddlesome." 

"  Yes,  that  is  the  worst  of  it,"  she  replied, 
with  a  sigh.  "  I  suppose  we  can  do  nothing. 
Still,  it  has  been  a  great  relief  just  to  tell  JTOU 
about  it  and  get  it  off  my  mind.  I  suppose  we 
can  only  hope  that  something  may  put  a  stop 
to  it  all ;  we  must  leave  it  to  chance." 


THE  AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  A  SLANDER.    25 

This  sentiment  amused  me  not  a  little.  Leave 
it  to  chance  indeed !  Had  she  not  caused  me  to 
grow  stronger  and  larger  by  every  word  she  ut- 
tered ?  And  had  not  the  conversation  revealed 
to  me  Mr.  Blackthorne's  one  vulnerable  part  ? 
I  knew  well  enough  that  I  should  be  able  to 
dominate  his  thoughts  as  I  had  done  hers. 
Finding  me  burdensome,  she  had  passed  me  on 
to  somebody  else,  with  additions  that  vastly  in- 
creased my  working  powers,  and  then  she  talked 
of  leaving  it  to  chance !  The  way  in  which  mor- 
tals practise  pious  frauds  on  themselves  is  really 
delightful !  And  yet  Lena  Houghton  was  a  good 
sort  of  girl,  and  had  from  her  childhood  repeat- 
ed the  Catechism  words  which  proclaim  that 
"  My  duty  to  my  neighbor  is  to  love  him  as  my- 
self. ...  To  keep  my  tongue  from  evil- 
speaking,  lying,  and  slandering."  What  is  more, 
she  took  great  pains  to  teach  these  words  to  a 
big  class  of  Sunday-school  children,  and  went, 
rain  or  shine,  to  spend  two  hours  each  Sunday 
in  a  stuffy  school -room  for  that  purpose.  It 
was  strange  that  she  should  be  so  ready  to  be- 
lieve evil  of  her  neighbor,  and  so  eager  to  spread 
the  story.  But  my  progenitor  is  clever,  and 
doubtless  knows  very  well  whom  to  select  as  his 
tools. 


26    THE  AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  A  SLANDER. 

By  this  time  they  had  reached  a  comfortable- 
looking1,  red-brick  house  with  white  stone  fac- 
ings, and  in  the  discussion  of  the  arrangements 
for  the  choir  treat  I  was  entirely  forgotten. 


MY  THIRD  STAGE. 

Alas  !  such  is  our  weakness,  that  we  often  more  read- 
ily believe  and  speak  of  another  that  which  is  evil  than 
tliat  which  is  good.  But  perfect  men  do  not  easily  give 
credit  to  every  report ;  because  they  know  man's  weak- 
ness, which  is  very  prone  to  evil,  and  very  subject  to 
fail  in  words. — THOMAS  i  KEMPIS. 

ALL  through  that  evening,  and  through  the 
first  part  of  the  succeeding  day,  I  was  crowded 
out  of  the  curate's  mind  by  a  host  of  thoughts 
with  which  I  had  nothing  in  common ;  and 
though  I  hovered  about  him  as  he  taught  in 
the  school,  and  visited  several  sick  people,  and 
argued  with  a  habitual  drunkard,  and  worked  at 
his  Sunday  sermon,  a  power,  which  I  felt  but 
did  not  understand,"  baffled  all  my  attempts  to 
gain  an  entrance  and  attract  his  notice.  I  made 
a  desperate  attack  on  him  after  lunch  as  he  sat 
smoking  and  enjoying  a  well-earned  rest,  but  it 
was  of  no  avail.  I  followed  him  to  a  large  gar- 
den-party later  on,  but  to  my  great  annoyance 


THE  AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  A  SLANDER.    27 

he  went  about  talking  to  everyone  in  the  pleas- 
antest  way  imaginable,  though  I  perceived  that 
he  was  longing  to  play  tennis  instead. 

At  length,  however,  my  opportunity  came. 
Mr.  Blackthorne  was  talking  to  the  lady  of  the 
house,  Mrs.  Courtenay,  when  she  suddenly  ex- 
claimed : 

"  Ah,  here  is  Mr.  Zaluski  just  arriving.  I  be- 
gan to  be  afraid  that  he  had  forgotten  the  day, 
and  he  is  always  such  an  acquisition.  How  do 
you  do,  Mr.  Zaluski  ? "  she  said,  greeting  my 
victim  warmly  as  he  stepped  on  to  the  terrace. 
"  So  glad  you  were  able  to  come.  You  know 
Mr.  Blackthorne,  I  think  ?  " 

Zaluski  greeted  the  curate  pleasantly,  and  his 
dark  eyes  lighted  up  with  a  gleam  of  amuse- 
ment. 

"  Oh,  we  are  great  friends,"  he  said,  laughing- 
ly. "  Only,  you  know,  I  sometimes  shock  him 
a  little — just  a  very  little." 

"  That  is  very  unkind  of  you,  I  am  sure,"  said 
Mrs.  Courtenay,  smiling. 

"  No,  not  at  all,"  said  Zaluski,  with  the  audac- 
ity of  a  privileged  being.  "  It  is  just  my  little 
amusement,  very  harmless,  very — what  you  call 
innocent.  Mr.  Blackthorne  cannot  make  up  his 
mind  about  me.  One  day  I  appear  to  him  to  be 


23    THE  AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  A  SLANDER. 

Catholic,  the  next  Comtist,  the  next  Orthodox 
Greek,  the  next  a  convert  to  the  Anglican  com- 
munion. I  am  a  mystery,  you  see !  And  mys- 
teries are  as  indispensable  in  life  as  in  a  ro- 
mance." 

He  laughed.  Mrs.  Courtenay  laughed  too,  and 
a  little  friendly  banter  was  carried  on  between 
them,  while  the  curate  stood  by  feeling  rather 
out  of  it. 

I  drew  nearer  to  him,  perceiving  that  my 
prospects  bid  fair  to  improve.  For  very  few 
people  can  feel  out  of  it  without  drifting  into  a 
self -regarding  mood,  and  then  they  are  the  eas- 
iest prey  imaginable.  Undoubtedly  a  man  like 
Zaluski,  with  his  easy  nonchalance,  his  knowl- 
edge of  the  world,  his  genuine  good  nature,  and 
the  background  of  sterling  qualities  which  came 
upon  you  as  a  surprise  because  he  loved  to  make 
himself  seem  a  mere  idler,  was  apt  to  eclipse  an 
ordinary  mortal  like  James  Blackthorne.  The 
curate  perceived  this  and  did  not  like  to  be 
eclipsed — as  a  matter  of  fact,  nobody  does.  It 
seemed  to  him  a  little  unfair  that  he,  who  had 
hitherto  been  made  much  of,  should  be  called 
to  play  second  fiddle  to  this  rich  Polish  fellow 
who  had  never  done  anything  for  Muddleton  or 
the  neighborhood.  And  then,  too,  Sigismuud 


THE  AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  A  SLANDER.    29 

Zaluski  had  a  way  of  poking-  fun  at  him  which 
ho  resented,  and  would  not  take  in  good  part. 

Something  of  this  began  to  stir  in  his  mind ; 
and  he  cordially  hated  the  Pole  when  Jim 
Courtenay,  who  arranged  the  tennis,  came  up 
and  asked  him  to  play  in  the  next  set,  passing 
the  curate  by  altogether. 

Then  I  found  no  difficulty  at  all  in  taking 
possession  of  him  ;  indeed,  he  was  delighted  to 
have  me  brought  back  to  his  memory,  he  posi- 
tively gloated  over  me,  and  I  grew  apace. 

Zaluski,  in  the  seventh  heaven  of  happiness, 
was  playing-  with  Gertrude  Morley,  and  his  play 
was  so  good  and  so  graceful  that  everyone  was 
watching-  it  with  pleasure.  His  partner, .  too, 
played  well ;  she  was  a  pretty,  fair-haired  girl, 
with  soft  gray  eyes,  like  the  eyes  of  a  dove ; 
she  wore  a  white  tennis  dress  and  a  white  sailor 
hat,  and  at  her  throat  she  had  fastened  a  cluster 
of  those  beautiful  orange -colored  roses  known 
by  the  prosaic  name  of  "  William  Allan  Rich- 
ardson." 

If  Mr.  Blackthorne  grew  angry  as  he  watched 
Sigismund  Zaluski,  he  grew  doubly  angry  as  he 
watched  Gertrude  Morley.  He  said  to  himself 
that  it  was  intolerable  that  such  a  girl  should 
fall  a  prey  to  a  vain,  shallow,  unprincipled  for- 


30    THE  AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  A  SLANDER. 

eigner,  and  in  a  few  minutes  he  had  painted 
such  a  dark  picture  of  poor  Sigismund  that  my 
strength  increased  tenfold. 

"Mr.  Blackthorne,"  said  Mrs.  Courtenay, 
"  would  you  take  Mrs.  Milton-Cleave  to  have 
an  ice  ?  " 

Now,  Mrs.  Milton-Cleave  had  always  been 
one  of  the  curate's  great  friends.  She  was  a 
very  pleasant,  talkative  woman  of  six-and- 
thirty,  and  a  general  favorite.  Her  popular- 
ity was  well  deserved,  for  she  was  always 
ready  to  do  a  kind  action,  and  often  went  out 
of  her  way  to  halp  people  who  had  not  the 
slightast  claim  upon  her.  There  was,  however, 
no  repose  about  Mrs.  Milton- Cleave,  and  an 
acute  observer  would  have  discovered  that  her 
universal  readiness  to  help  was  caused  to  some 
extent  by  her  good  heart,  but  in  a  very  large 
degree  by  her  restless  and  over-active  brain. 
Her  sphere  was  scarcely  large  enough  for  her, 
she  would  have  made  an  excellent  head  of  an 
orphan  asylum  or  manager  of  some  large  in- 
stitution, but  her  quiet  country  life  offered  far 
too  narrow  a  field  for  her  energy. 

"  It  is  really  quite  a  treat  to  watch  Mr.  Za- 
luski's  play,"  she  remarked,  as  they  walked  to 
the  refreshment  tent  at  the  other  end  of  the 


THE  AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  A  SLANDER.    31 

lawn.  "  Certainly  foreigners  know  how  to 
move  much  better  than  we  do ;  our  best  play- 
ers look  awkward  beside  them." 

"  Do  you  think  so  ? "  said  Mr.  Blackthorne. 
"  I  am  afraid  I  am  full  of  prejudice,  and  con- 
sider that  no  one  can  equal  a  true-born  Briton." 

"  And  I  quite  agree  with  you  in  the  main," 
said  Mrs.  Milton-Cleave.  "  Though  I  confess 
that  it  is  rather  refreshing  to  have  a  little 
variety." 

The  curate  was  silent,  but  his  silence  merely 
covered  his  absorption  in  me,  and  I  began  to 
exercise  a  faint  influence  through  his  mind  on 
the  mind  of  his  companion.  This  caused  her  at 
length  to  say : 

"I  don't  think  you  quite  like  Mr.  Zaluski. 
Do  you  know  much  about  him  ?  " 

"  I  have  met  him  several  times  this  summer," 
said  the  curate,  in  the  tone  of  one  who  could 
have  said  much  more  if  he  would. 

The  less  satisfying  his  replies,  the  more  Mrs. 
Milton-Cleave's  curiosity  grew. 

"  Now,  tell  me  candidly,"  she  said,  at  length, 
"is  there  not  some  mystery  about  our  new 
neighbor  ?  Is  he  quite  what  he  seems  to  be  ?  " 

"  I  fear  he  is  not,"  said  Mr.  Blackthorne, 
making  the  admission  in  a  tone  of  reluctance, 


32    THE  AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  A  SLANDER. 

though,  to  tell  the  truth,  he  had  been  long-ing 
to  pass  me  on  for  the  last  five  minutes. 

"  You  mean  that  he  is  fast  ? " 

"  Worse  than  that,"  said  James  Blackthorne, 
lowering  his  voice  as  they  walked  down  one  of 
the  shady  garden  paths.  "  He  is  a  dangerous, 
unprincipled  fellow,  and  into  the  bargain  an 
avowed  Nihilist.  All  that  is  involved  in  that 
word  you  perhaps  scarcely  realize." 

"  Indeed  I  do,"  she  exclaimed,  with  a  shocked 
expression.  "  I  have  just  been  reading  a  review 
of  that  book  of  Stepniak.  Their  social  and  re- 
ligious views  are  terrible;  free  love,  atheism, 
everything  that  could  bring  ruin  on  the  human 
race.  Is  he  indeed  a  Nihilist  ?  " 

Mr.  Blackthorne's  conscience  gave  him  a  sharp 
prick,  for  he  knew  that  he  ought  not  to  have 
passed  me  on.  He  tried  to  pacify  it  with  the 
excuse  that  he  had  only  promised  not  to  tell 
that  Miss  Houghton  had  been  his  informant. 

"  I  assure  you,"  he  said,  impressively,  "  it  is 
only  too  true.  I  know  it  on  the  best  authority." 

And  here  I  cannot  help  remarking  that  it  has 
always  seemed  to  me  strange  that  even  experi- 
enced women  of  the  world,  like  Mrs.  Milton- 
Cleave,  can  be  so  easily  hood-winked  by  that 
vague  nonentity,  "  The  Best  Authority."  I  am 


THE  AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  A  SLANDER.    33 

inclined  to  think  that,  were  I  a  human  being,  I 
should  retort  with  an  expressive  motion  of  the 
finger  and  thumb,  "  Oh,  you  know  it  on  the  best 
authority,  do  you  ?  Then  that  for  your  story  !  " 

However,  I  thrived  wonderfully  en  the  best 
authority,  and  it  would  be  ungrateful  of  me  to 
speak  evil  of  that  powerful  though  imaginary 
being. 

At  right  angles  with  the  garden-walk  down 
which  the  two  were  pacing  there  was  another 
wide  pathway,  bordered  by  high,  closely  clipped 
shrubs.  Down  this  paced  a  very  different  couple. 
Mrs.  Milton-Cleave  caught  sight  of  them,  and 
so  did  the  curate.  Mrs.  Milton-Cleave  sighed. 

"I  am  afraid  h?  is  running  after  Gertrude 
Morley !  Poor  girl !  I  hope  she  will  not  be 
deluded  into  encouraging  him." 

And  then  they  made  just  the  same  little  set 
remarks  about  tha  desirability  of  stopping  so 
dangerous  an  acquaintance,  and  the  impossi- 
bility of  interfering  with  other  people's  affairs, 
and  the  sad  necessity  of  standing  by  with  folded 
hands.  I  laughed  so  much  over  their  hollow 
little  phrases  that  at  last  I  was  fain  to  beat  a 
retreat,  and,  prompted  by  curiosity  to  know  a 
little  of  the  truth,  I  followed  Sigismund  and 
Gertrude  down  the  broad  grassy  pathway. 


34:    THE  AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  A  SLANDER. 

I  knew  of  course  a  good  deal  of  Zaluski's  char- 
acter, because  my  own  existence  and  growth 
pointed  out  what  he  was  not.  Still,  to  study  a 
man  by  a  process  of  negation  is  tedious,  and 
though  I  knew  that  he  was  not  a  Nihilist,  or  a 
free-lover,  or  an  atheist,  or  an  unprincipled  fel- 
low with  a  dangerous  temper,  yet  I  was  curious 
to  see  him  as  he  really  was. 

"  If  you  only  knew  how  happy  you  had  made 
me ! "  he  was  saying.  And  indeed,  as  far  as  hap- 
piness went,  there  was  not  much  to  choose  be- 
tween them,  I  fancy ;  for  Gertrude  Morley  looked 
radiant,  and  in  her  dove-like  eyes  there  was  the 
reflection  of  the  love  which  flashed  in  his. 

"  You  must  talk  to  my  mother  about  it,"  she 
said,  after  a  minute's  silence.  "  You  see,  I  am 
still  under  age,  and  she  and  Uncle  Henry,  my 
guardian,  must  consent  before  we  are  actually 
betrothed ! " 

"I  will  see  them  at  once,"  said  Zaluski, 
eagerly. 

"  You  could  see  my  mother,"  she  replied. 
"  But  Uncle  Henry  is  still  in  Sweden,  and  will 
not  be  in  town  for  another  week." 

"  Must  we  really  wait  so  long  ? "  sighed  Sigis^ 
mund,  impatiently. 

She  laughed  at  him  gently. 


THE  AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  A  SLANDER.    35 

"  A  whole  week  !  But  then  we  are  sure  of  each 
other.  I  do  not  think  we  ought  to  grumble." 

"  But  perhaps  they  may  think  that  a  merchant 
is  no  fitting  match  for  you,"  he  suggested.  "  I 
am  nothing  but  a  plain  merchant,  and  my  peo- 
ple have  been  in  the  same  business  for  four  gen- 
erations. As  far  as  wealth  goes  I  might  per- 
haps satisfy  your  people,  but  for  the  rest  I  am 
but  a  prosaic  fellow,  with  neither  noble  blood, 
nor  the  brain  of  a  genius,  nor  anything  out  of 
the  common." 

"  It  will  be  enough  for  my  mother  that  we  love 
each  other,"  she  said,  shyly. 

"  And  your  uncle  ?  " 

"  It  will  be  enough  for  him  that  you  are  up- 
right and  honorable — enough  that  you  are  your- 
self, Sigismund." 

They  were  sitting  now  in  a  little  sheltered  re- 
cess clipped  out  of  the  yew-trees.  When  that 
softly  spoken  "  Sigismund "  fell  from  her  lips, 
Zaluski  caught  her  in  his  arms  and  kissed  her 
again  and  again. 

"  I  have  led  such  a  lonely  life,"  he  said,  after 
a  few  minutes,  during  which  their  talk  had 
baffled  my  comprehension.  "  All  my  people 
died  while  I  was  still  a  boy." 

"  Then  who  brought  you  up  ? "  she  inquired. 


36    THE  AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  A  SLANDER. 

"  An  uncle  of  mine,  the  head  of  our  firm  in  St. 
Petersburg1.  He  was  very  good  to  me,  but  he 
had  children  of  his  own,  and  of  course  I  could 
not  be  to  him  as  one  of  them.  I  have  had  many 
friends  and  much  kindness  shown  to  me,  but 
love !  none  till  to-day." 

And  then  again  they  fell  into  the  talk  which 
I  could  not  fathom.  And  so  I  left  them  in  their 
brief  happiness,  for  my  time  of  idleness  was 
over,  and  I  was  ordered  to  attend  Mrs.  Milton- 
Cleave  without  a  moment's  delay. 


MY  FOURTH  STAGE. 

Oh,  the  little  more,  and  how  much  it  is  ! 

— E.  BROWNING. 

MBS.  MILTON-CLEAVE  had  one  weakness— she 
was  possessed  by  an  inordinate  desire  for  in- 
fluence. This  made  her  always  eagerly  anxious 
to  be  interesting  both  in  her  conversation  and 
in  her  letters,  and  to  this  end  she  exerted  her- 
self with  unwearying  activity.  She  liked  in- 
fluencing Mr.  Blackthorne,  and  spared  no  pains 
on  him  that  afternoon ;  and  indeed  the  curate 
was  a  good  deal  flattered  by  her  friendship,  and 


THE  AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  A  SLANDER.    37 

considered  her  one  of  the  most  clever  and 
charming  women  he  had  ever  met. 

Sigismund  and  Gertrude  returned  to  the  or- 
dinary world  just  as  Mrs.  Milton-Cleave  was 
saying1  good-by  to  the  hostess.  She  glanced  at 
them  searchingly. 

"  Good-by,  Gertrude,"  she  said,  a  little  cold- 
ly. "  Did  you  win  at  tennis  ?  " 

"Indeed  we  did,"  said  Gertrude,  smiling. 
"  "We  came  off  with  flying  colors.  It  was  a  love 
set." 

The  girl  looked  more  beautiful  than  ever,  and 
there  was  a  tell-tale  color  in  her  cheeks  and  an 
unusual  light  in  her  soft  gray  eyes.  As  for 
Zaluski,  he  was  so  evidently  in  love,  and  had  the 
audacity  to  look  so  supremely  happy,  that  Mrs. 
Milton-Cleave  was  more  than  ever  impressed 
with  the  gravity  of  the  situation.  The  curate 
handed  her  into  her  victoria,  and  she  drove 
home  through  the  sheltered  lanes  musing  sadly 
over  the  story  she  had  heard,  and  wondering 
what  Gertrude's  future  would  be.  "When  she 
reached  home,  however,  the  affair  was  driven 
from  her  thoughts  by  her  children,  of  whom 
she  was  devotedly  fond.  They  came  running  to 
meet  her,  frisking  like  so  many  kittens  round 
her  as  she  went  upstairs  to  her  room,  and  beg- 


33    THE  AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  A  SLANDER. 

ging  to  stay  with  her  while  she  dressed  for  din- 
ner. During  dinner 'she  was  engrossed  with  her 
husband ;  but  afterward,  when  she  was  alone  in 
the  drawing-room,  I  found  my  opportunity  for 
working-  on  her  restless  mind. 

"  Dear  me,"  she  exclaimed,  throwing1  aside 
the  newspaper  she  had  just  taken  up,  "I  ought 
to  write  to  Mrs.  Selldon  at  Dulminster  about 
that  G.  F.  S.  girl !  " 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  she  ought  not  to  have 
written  then,  the  letter  might  well  have  waited 
till  the  morning,  and  she  was  overtired  and 
needed  rest.  But  I  was  glad  to  see  her  take  up 
her  pen,  for  I  knew  I  should  come  in  most  con- 
veniently to  fill  up  the  second  side  of  the  sheet. 

Before  long  Jane  Stiggins,  the  member  who 
had  migrated  from  Muddleton  to  Dulminster, 
had  been  duly  reported,  wound  up,  and  made 
over  to  the  archdeacon's  wife.  Then  the  tired 
hand  paused.  "What  more  could  she  say  to  her 
friend  ? 

"  We  are  leading  our  usual  quiet  life  here," 
she  wrote,  "  with  the  ordinary  round  of  tennis 
parties  and  picnics  to  enliven  us.  The  children 
have  been  wonderfully  well,  and  I  think  you 
will  see  a  great  improvement  in  your  god- 


THE  AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  A  SLANDER.    39 

daughter  when  you  next  come  to  stay  with  us." 
"  Oh,  dear  !  "  sighed  Mrs.  Milton-Cleave,  "  how 
dull  and  stupid  I  am  to-night !  I  can't  think  of 
a  single  thing  to  say."  Then  at  length  I  flashed 
into  her  mind,  and  with  a  sigh  of  relief  and  a 
little  rising  flush  of  excitement,  she  went  on 
much  more  rapidly. 

"  It  is  such  a  comfort  to  be  quite  at  rest  about 
them,  and  to  see  them  all  looking  so  well.  But 
I  suppose  one  can  never  be  without  some  cause 
of  worry,  and  just  now  I  am  very  unhappy  about 
that  nice  girl  Gertrude  Morley,  whom  you  ad- 
mired so  much  when  you  were  last  here.  The 
whole  neighborhood  has  been  dominated  this 
year  by  a  young  Polish  merchant  named  Sigis- 
mund  Zaluski,  wrho  is  very  clever  and  musical, 
and  knows  well  how  to  win  popularity.  He  has 
taken  Ivy  Cottage  for  four  months,  and  is,  I 
fear,  doing  great  mischief.  The  Morleys  are 
his  special  friends,  and  I  greatly  fear  he  is 
making  love  to  Gertrude.  Now,  I  know  pri- 
vately, on  the  best  authority,  that  although  he 
has  so  completely  deceived  everyone,  and  has 
managed  so  cleverly  to  pose  as  a  respectable 
man,  that  Mr.  Zaluski  is  really  a  Nihilist,  a  free- 
lover,  an  atheist,  and  altogether  a  most  unprin- 
cipled man.  He  is  very  clever,  and  speaks 


40    THE  AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  A  SLANDER. 

English  most  fluently,  indeed ;  he  has  lived  in 
London  since  the  spring1  of  1881 — he  told  me  so 
himself.  I  cannot  help  fancying  that  he  must 
have  been  concerned  in  the  assassination  of  the 
late  czar,  which  you  will  remember  took  place  in 
that  year,  early  in  March.  It  is  terrible  to  think 
of  the  poor  Morleys  entering  blindfold  on  such 
an  undesirable  connection ;  but,  at  the  same 
time,  I  really  do  not  feel  that  I  can  say  anything 
about  it.  Excuse  this  hurried  note,  dear  Char- 
lotte, and  with  love  to  yourself  and  kindest  re- 
membrances to  the  archdeacon, 

"  Believe  me,  very  affectionately  yours, 
"  GEORGINA  MILTON-CLEAVE. 

"  P.S. — It  may  perhaps  be  as  well  not  to  men- 
tion this  affair  about  Gertrude  Morley  and  Mr. 
Zaluski.  They  are  not  yet  engaged,  as  far  as  I 
know,  and  I  sincerely  trust  it  may  prove  to  be  a 
mere  flirtation." 

I  had  now  grown  to  such  enormous  dimen- 
sions that  anyone  who  had  known  me  in  my 
infancy  would  scarcely  have  recognized  me, 
while  naturally,  the  more  I  grew  the  more 
powerful  I  became,  and  the  more  capable  both 
of  impressing  the  minds  which  received  me 
and  of  injuring  Zaluski.  Poor  Zaluski,  who  was 


THE  AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  A  SLANDER.    41 

so  foolishly,  thoughtlessly  happy.  He  little 
dreamed  of  the  fate  that  awaited  him !  His 

whole  world  was  bright  and  full  of  promise; 

• 

each  hour  of  love  seemed  to  improve  him,  to 
deepen  his  whole  character,  to  tone  down  his 
rather  flippant  manner,  to  awaken  for  him  new 
and  hitherto  unthought-of  realities. 

But  while  he  basked  in  his  new  happiness  I 
travelled  in  my  close,  stuffy  envelope  to  Dul- 
minster,  and  after  having  been  tossed  in  and 
out  of  bags,  shuffled,  stamped,  thumped,  tied 
up,  and  generally  shaken  about,  I  arrived  one 
morning  at  Dulminster  Archdeaconry,  and  was 
laid  on  the  breakfast-table  among  other  ap- 
petizing things  to  greet  Mrs.  Selldon  when  she 
came  downstairs. 


MY  FIFTH  STAGE. 

Also  it  is  wise  not  to  believe  everything  you  hear,  nor 
immediately  to  cany  to  the  ears  of  others  what  you  have 
either  heard  or  believed. — THOMAS  A  KEMPIS. 

THOUGH  I  was  read  in  silence  at  the  break- 
fast-table and  not  passed  on  to  the  archdeacon, 
I  lay  dormant  in  Mrs.  Selldon's  mind  all  day, 
and  came  to  her  aid  that  night  when  she  was  at 
her  wits'  end  for  something  to  talk  about. 


42    THE  AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  A  SLANDER. 

Mrs.  Selldon,  though  a  most  worthy  and 
estimable  person,  was  of  a  phlegmatic  temper- 
ament ;  her  sympathies  were  not  easily  aroused, 
her  mind  was  lazy  and  torpid,  in  conversation 
she  was  unutterably  dull.  There  were  times 
when  she  was  painfully  conscious  of  this,  and 
would  have  given  much  for  the  ceaseless  flow 
of  words  which  fell  from  the  lips  of  her  friend 
Mrs.  Milton-Cleave.  And  that  evening  after  my 
arrival,  chanced  to  be  one  of  these  occasions, 
for  there  was  a  dinner-party  at  the  archdeacon- 
ry, given  in  honor  of  a  well-known  author  who 
was  spending  a  few  days  in  the  neighborhood. 

"  I  wish  you  could  have  Mr.  Shrewsbury  at 
your  end  of  the  table,  Thomas,"  Mrs.  Selldon 
had  remarked  to  her  husband  with  a  sigh,  as 
she  was  arranging  the  guests  on  paper  that 
afternoon. 

"  Oh,  he  must  certainly  take  you  in,  my  dear," 
said  the  archdeacon.  "  And  he  seems  a  very 
clever,  well-read  man ;  I  am  sure  you  will  find 
him  easy  to  talk  to." 

Poor  Mrs.  Selldon  thought  that  she  would 
rather  have  had  someone  who  was  neither 
clever  nor  well  read.  But  there  was  no  help 
for  her,  and,  whether  she  would  or  not,  she  had 
to  go  in  to  dinner  with  the  literary  lion. 


THE  AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  A  SLANDER.    43 

Mr.  Mark  Shrewsbury  was  a  novelist  of  great 
ability.  Some  twenty  years  before  he  had 
been  called  to  the  bar,  and,  conscious  of  real 
talent,  had  been  greatly  embittered  by  the  im- 
possibility of  getting  on  in  his  profession.  At 
length,  in  disgust,  he  gave  up  all  hopes  of  suc- 
cess and  devoted  himself  instead  to  literature. 
In  this  field  he  won  the  recognition  for  which 
he  craved;  his  books  were  read  everywhere, 
his  name  became  famous,  his  income  steadily 
increased,  and  he  had  the  pleasant  conscious- 
ness that  he  had  found  his  vocation.  Still,  in 
spite  of  his  success,  he  could  not  forget  the 
bitter  years  of  failure  and  disappointment 
which  had  gone  before,  and  though  his  novels 
were  full  of  genius  they  were  pervaded  by  an 
under-tone  of  sarcasm,  so  that  people  after 
reading  them  were  more  ready  than  before  to 
take  cynical  views  of  life. 

He  was  one  of  those  men  whose  quiet,  im- 
passive faces  reveal  scarcely  anything  of  their 
character.  He  was  neither  tall  nor  short, 
neither  dark  nor  fair,  neither  handsome  nor  the 
reverse  ;  in  fact  his  personality  was  not  in  the 
least  impressive  ;  while,  like  most  true  artists, 
he  observed  all  things  so  quietly  that  you 
rarely  discovered  that  he  was  observing  at  all. 


44:    THE  AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  A  SLANDER. 

"  Dear  me ! "  people  would  say,  "  is  Mark 
Shrewsbury  really  here?  Which  is  he?  I 
don't  see  anyone  at  all  like  my  idea  of  a 
novelist." 

"  There  he  is— that  man  in  spectacles,"  would 
be  the  reply. 

And  really  the  spectacles  were  the  only  note- 
worthy thing  about  him. 

Mrs.  Selldon,  who  had  seen  several  authors 
and  authoresses  in  her  time,  and  knew  that  they 
were  as  a  rule  most  ordinary,  humdrum  kind  of 
people,  was  quite  prepared  for  her  fate.  She 
remembered  her  astonishment  as  a  girl  when, 
having  laughed  and  cried  at  the  play,  and  tak- 
ing the  chief  actor  as  her  ideal  hero,  she  had 
had  him  pointed  out  to  her  one  day  in  Eegent 
Street,  and  found  him  to  be  a  most  common- 
place-looking man,  the  very  last  person  one 
would  have  supposed  capable  of  stirring  the 
hearts  of  a  great  audience. 

Meanwhile  dinner  progressed,  and  Mrs.  Sell- 
don talked  to  an  empty-headed  but  loquacious 
man  on  her  left,  and  racked  her  brains  for  some- 
thing to  say  to  the  alarmingly  silent  author 
on  her  right.  She  remembered  hearing  that 
Charles  Dickens  would  often  sit  silent  through 
the  whole  of  dinner,  observing  quietly  those 


TUB  AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  A  SLANDER.    45 

about  him,  but  that  at  dessert  he  would  sud- 
denly come  to  life  and  keep  the  whole  table  in 
roars  of  laughter.  She  feared  that  Mr.  Shrews- 
bury meant  to  imitate  the  great  novelist  in  the 
first  particular,  but  was  scarcely  likely  to  fol- 
low his  example  in  the  last.  At  length  she 
asked  him  what  he  thought  of  the  cathedral, 
and  a  few  tepid  remarks  followed. 

"  How  unutterably  this  good  lady  bores  me ! " 
thought  the  author. 

"  How  odd  it  is  that  his  characters  talk  so 
well  in  his  books,  and  that  he  is  such  a  stick ! " 
thought  Mrs.  Selldon. 

"  I  suppose  it's  the  effect  of  cathedral-town 
atmosphere,"  reflected  the  author. 

"  I  suppose  he  is  eaten  up  with  conceit  and 
won't  trouble  himself  to  talk  to  me,"  thought 
the  hostess. 

By  the  time  the  fish  had  been  removed  they 
had  arrived  at  a  state  of  mutual  contempt. 
Mindful  of  the  reputation  they  had  to  keep 
up,  however,  they  exerted  themselves  a  little 
more  while  the  entrees  went  round. 

"Seldom  reads,  I  should  fancy,  and  never 
thinks  !  "  reflected  the  author,  glancing  at  Mrs. 
Selldon's  placid,  unintellectual  face.  "What 
on  earth  can  I  say  to  her  ?  " 


46    THE  AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  A  SLANDER. 

"  Very  unpractical,  I  am  sure,"  reflected  Mrs. 
Selldon.  The  sort  of  man  who  lives  in  a  world 
of  his  own,  and  only  lays  down  his  pen  to  take 
up  a  book.  What  subject  shall  I  start  ?  " 

"  "What  delightful  weather  we  have  been  hav- 
ing the  last  few  days !  "  observed  the  author. 
"  Real,  genuine  summer  weather  at  last."  The 
same  remark  had  been  trembling  on  Mrs.  Sell- 
don's  lips.  She  assented  with  great  cheerful- 
ness and  alacrity ;  and  over  that  invaluable 
topic,  which  is  always  so  safe  and  so  congenial, 
and  so  ready  to  hand,  they  grew  quite  friendly, 
and  the  conversation  for  full  five  minutes  was 
animated. 

An  interval  of  thought  followed. 

"  How  wearisome  is  society  !  "  reflected  Mrs. 
Selldon.  "  It  is  hard  that  we  must  spend  so 
much  money  in  giving  dinners,  and  have  so 
much  trouble  for  so  little  enjoyment." 

"  One  pays  dearly  for  fame,"  reflected  the 
author.  "  What  a  confounded  nuisance  it  is  to 
waste  all  this  time  when  there  are  the  last 
proofs  of '  What  Caste  ? '  to  be  done  for  the  nine- 
o'clock  post  to-morrow  morning!  Goodness 
knows  what  time  I  shall  get  to  bed  to-night ! " 

Then  Mrs.  Selldon  thought  regretfully  of  the 
comfortable  easy-chair  that  she  usually  enjoyed 


THE  AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  A  SLANDER.    47 

after  dinner,  and  the  ten  minutes'  nap  and  the 
congenial  needle-work.  And  Mark  Shrewsbury 
thought  of  his  chambers  in  Pump  Court,  and 
longed  for  his  type-writer,  and  his  books,  and 
his  swivel-chair,  and  his  favorite  meerschaum. 

<:  I  should  be  less  afraid  to  talk  if  there  were 
not  always  the  horrible  idea  that  he  may  take 
down  what  one  says,"  thought  Mrs.  Selldon. 

"  I  should  be  less  bored  if  she  would  only  be 
her  natural  self,"  reflected  the  author.  "And 
would  not  talk  prim  platitudes."  (This  was 
hard,  for  he  had  talked  nothing  else  himself.) 
"Does  she  think  she  is  so  interesting  that  I 
am  likely  to  study  her  for  my  next  book  ? " 

"  Have  you  been  abroad  this  summer  ? "  in- 
quired Mrs.  Selldon,  making  another  spasmodic 
attempt  at  conversation. 

"No;  I  detest  travelling,"  replied  Mark 
Shrewsbury.  "  When  I  need  change  I  just  settle 
down  in  some  quiet  country  district  for  a  few 
months— some  where  near  Windsor,  or  Reigate, 
or  Muddleton.  There  is  nothing  to  my  mind 
like  our  English  scenery." 

"Oh,  do  you  know  Muddleton?"  exclaimed 
Mrs.  Selldon.  "Is  it  not  a  charming  little 
place "?  I  often  stay  in  the  neighborhood  with 
the  Milton-Cleaves." 


48    THE  AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  A  SLANDER. 

"  I  know  Milton-Cleave  well,"  said  the  author. 
"A  capital  fellow,  quite  the  typical  country 
gentleman." 

"  Is  he  not  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Selldon,  much  relieved 
to  have  found  this  subject  in  common.  "  His 
wife  is  a  great  friend  of  mine ;  she  is  full  of  life 
and  energy,  and  does  an  immense  amount  of 
good.  Did  you  say  you  had  stayed  with  them  ?  " 

"  No ;  but  last  year  I  took  a  house  in  that 
neighborhood  for  a  few  months ;  a  most  charm- 
ing little  place  it  was,  just  fit  for  a  lonely 
bachelor.  I  dare  say  you  remember  it — Ivy 
Cottage,  on  the  Newton  Road." 

"  Did  you  stay  there  ?  Now,  what  a  curious 
coincidence !  Only  this  morning  I  heard  from 
Mrs.  Milton-Cleave  that  Ivy  Cottage  had  been 
taken  this  summer  by  a  Mr.  Sigismund  Zaluski, 
a  Polish  merchant,  who  is  doing  untold  harm  in 
the  neighborhood.  He  is  a  very  clever,  unscru- 
pulous man,  and  has  managed  to  take  in  almost 
everyone." 

"  Why,  what  is  he  ?  A  swindler  ?  Or  a  bur- 
glar in  disguise,  like  the  '  House  on  the  Marsh  ' 
fellow  ?  "  asked  the  author,  with  a  little  twinkle 
of  amusement  in  his  face. 

"  Oh,  much  worse  than  that,"  said  Mrs.  Selldon, 
lowering  her  voice.  "  I  assure  you,  Mr.  Shrews- 


TUB  AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  A  SLANDER.    49 

bury,  you  would  hardly  credit  the  story  if  I  wero 
to  tell  it  you,  it  is  really  stranger  than  fiction." 
Mark  Shrewsbury  pricked  up  his  ears — he  no 
longer  felt  bored,  he  began  to  think  that,  after 
all,  there  might  be  some  compensation  for  this 
wearisome  dinner-party.  He  was  always  glad 
to  seize  upon  material  for  future  plots,  and 
somehow  the  notion  of  a  mysterious  Pole  sud- 
denly making  his  appearance  in  that  quiet 
country  neighborhood  and  winning  undeserved 
popularity  rather  took  his  fancy.  He  thought 
he  might  make  something  of  it.  However,  he 
knew  human  nature  too  well  to  ask  a  direct 
question. 

"  I  am  sorry  to  hear  that,"  he  said,  becoming 
all  at  once  quite  sympathetic  and  approachable. 
"  I  don't  like  the  thought  of  those  simple,  un- 
sophisticated people  being  hoodwinked  by  a 
scoundrel." 

"No;  is  it  not  sad?"  said  Mrs.  Selldon. 
"  Such  pleasant,  hospitable  people  as  they  are ! 
Do  you  remember  the  Morleys  ? " 

"  Oh,  yes  !  There  was  a  pretty  daughter  who 
played  tennis  well." 

"  Quite  so— Gertrude  Morley.  Well,  would 
you  believe  it,  this  miserable  fortune-hunter  ia 
actually  either  engaged  to  her  or  on  the  eve  of 


50    THE  AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  A  SLANDER. 

being  engaged !  Poor  Mrs.  Milton-Cleave  is 
so  unhappy  about  it,  for  she  knows,  on  the 
best  authority,  that  Mr.  Zaluski  is  unfit  to  en- 
ter a  respectable  house." 

"  Perhaps  he  is  really  some  escaped  crim- 
inal ?  "  suggested  Mr.  Shrewsbury,  tentatively. 

Mrs.  Selldon  hesitated.  Then,  under  the 
cover  of  the  general  roar  of  com'ersation,  she 
said,  iu  a  low  voice : 

"  You  have  guessed  quite  rightly.  He  is  one 
of  the  Nihilists  who  were  concerned  in  the  as- 
sassination of  the  late  czar." 

"  You  don't  say  so !  "  exclaimed  Mark  Shrews- 
bury, much  startled.  "  Is  it  possible  ? " 

"  Indeed,  it  is  only  too  true,"  said  Mrs.  Sell- 
don. "  I  heard  it  only  the  other  morning,  and 
on  the  very  best  authority.  Poor  Gertrude 
Morley  !  My  heart  bleeds  for  her." 

Now,  I  can't  help  observing  here  that  this 
must  have  been  the  merest  figure  of  speech,  for 
just  then  there  was  a  comfortable  little  glow 
of  satisfaction  about  Mrs.  Selldon's  heart. 
She  was  so  delighted  to  have  "  got  on  well,"  as 
she  expressed  it,  with  the  literary  lion,  and  by 
this  time  dessert  was  on  the  table,  and  soon  tho 
tedious  ceremony  would  be  happily  over. 

"  But    how    did   ho    escape  ? "  asked  Mark 


THE  AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  A  SLANDER.    51 

Shrewsbury,  still  with  the  thought  of  "  copy  " 
in  his  mind. 

"  I  don't  know  the  details,"  said  Mrs.  Sell- 
don.  "  Probably  they  are  only  known  to  him- 
self. But  he  managed  to  escape  somehow  in 
the  month  of  March,  1891,  and  to  reach  Eng- 
land safely.  I  fear  it  is  only  too  often  the  case 
in  this  world — wickedness  is  apt  to  be  success- 
ful." 

"  To  flourish  like  a  green  bay -tree,"  said 
Mark  Shrewsbury,  congratulating  himself  on 
the  aptness  of  the  quotation,  and  its  suitability 
to  the  archdiaconal  dinner-table.  "  It  is  the 
strangest  story  I  have  heard  for  a  long  time." 
Just  then  there  was  a  pause  in  the  general  con- 
versation, and  Mrs.  Selldon  took  advantage  of 
it  to  make  the  sign  for  rising,  so  that  no  more 
passed  with  regard  to  Zaluski. 

Shrewsbury,  flattering  himself  that  he  had 
left  a  good  impression  by  his  last  remark, 
thought  better  not  to  efface  it  later  in  the  even- 
ing by  any  other  conversation  with  his  hostess. 
But  in  the  small  hours  of  the  night,  when  he 
had  finished  his  bundle  of  proofs,  he  took  up 
his  note-book,  and,  strangling  his  yawns,  made 
two  or  three  brief,  pithy  notes  of  the  story  Mrs. 
Selldon  had  told  him,  adding  a  further  develop- 


52    THE  AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  A  SLANDER. 

ment  which  occurred  to  him,  and  wondering1  to 
himself  whether  "  Like  a  Green  Bay  Tree " 
would  be  a  selling  title. 

After  this  he  went  to  bed,  and  slept  the  sleep 
of  the  just,  or  the  unbroken  sleep  which  goes 
by  that  name. 


MY  SIXTH  STAGE. 

But  whispering  tongues  can  poison  truth. 

— COLERIDGE. 

LONDON  in  early  September  is  a  somewhat 
trying  place.  Mark  Shrewsbury  found  it  less 
pleasing  in  reality  than  in  his  visions  during 
the  dinner-party  at  Dulminster.  True,  his 
chambers  were  comfortable,  and  his  type-writer 
was  as  invaluable  a  machine  as  ever,  and  his 
novel  was  drawing  to  a  successful  conclusion  ; 
but  though  all  these  things  were  calculated  to 
cheer  him,  he  wras  nevertheless  depressed. 
Town  was  dull,  the  heat  was  trying,  and  he  had 
never  in  his  life  found  it  so  difficult  to  settle 
down  to  work.  He  began  to  agree  with  the 
preacher,  that  "  of  making  many  books  there  is 
no  end,"  and  that,  in  spite  of  his  favorite 
"  Remington's  perfected  No.  2,"  novel-writing 
was  a  weariness  to  the  flesh.  Soon  he  drifted 


THE  AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  A  SLANDER.    53 

into  a  sort  of  vague  idleness,  which  was  not  a 
good,  honest  holiday,  but  just  a  lazy  waste  of 
time  and  brains.  I  was  pleased  to  observe 
this,  and  was  not  slow  to  take  advantage  of  it. 
Had  he  stayed  in  Pump  Court  he  might  have 
forgotten  me  altogether  in  his  work,  but  in  the 
soft  luxury  of  his  club  life  I  found  that  I  had  a 
very  fair  chance  of  being  passed  on  to  some 
one  else. 

One  hot  afternoon,  on  waking  from  a  com- 
fortable nap  in  the  depths  of  an  arm-chair  at 
the  club,  Shrewsbury  was  greeted  by  one  of 
his  friends. 

"I  thought  you  were  in  Switzerland,  old 
fellow ! "  he  exclaimed,  yawning  and  stretching 
himself. 

"  Came  back  yesterday — awfully  bad  season 
— confoundedly  dull,"  returned  the  other. 
"  Where  have  you  been  ? " 

"  Down  with  Warren  near  Dulminster. 
Deathly  dull  hole." 

"  Do  for  your  next  novel.  Eh  ? "  said  the 
other,  with  a  laugh. 

Mark  Shrewsbury  smiled  good-naturedly. 

"  Talking  of  novels,"  he  observed,  with  an- 
other yawn,  "I  heard  such  a  story  down 
there ! " 


54:    THE  AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  A  SLANDER. 

"Did  you?  Let's  hear  it.  A  nice  little 
scandal  would  do  instead  of  a  pick-me-up." 

"It's  not  a  scandal.  Don't  raise  your  ex- 
pectations. It's  the  story  of  a  successful 
scoundrel." 

And  then  I  came  out  again  in  full  vigor; 
nay,  with  vastly  increased  powers ;  for  though 
Mark  Shrewsbury  did  not  add  very  much  to 
me  or  alter  my  appearance,  yet  his  graphic 
words  made  me  much  more  impressive  than  I 
had  been  under  the  management  of  Mrs.  Sell- 
don. 

"  H'm  !  that's  a  queer  story,"  said  the  limp- 
looking  young  man  from  Switzerland.  "  I  say, 
have  a  game  of  billiards,  will  you  ?  " 

Shrewsbury,  with  a  prodigious  yawn,  drag- 
ged himself  up  out  of  his  chair,  and  the  two 
went  off  together.  As  they  left  the  room  the 
only  other  man  present  looked  up  from  his 
newspaper,  following  them  with  his  eyes. 

"  Shrewsbury  the  novelist,"  he  thought  to 
himself.  "A  sterling  fellow!  And  he  heard 
it  from  an  archdeacon's  wife.  Confound  it  all ! 
the  thing  must  be  true,  then.  I'll  write  and 
make  full  inquiries  about  this  Zaluski  before 
consenting  to  the  engagement." 

And,  being  a  prompt,    business-like    man, 


THE  AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  A  SLANDER.    55 

Gertrude  Morley's  uncle  sat  down  and  wrote  the 
following-  letter  to  a  Kussian  friend  of  his  who 
lived  at  St.  Petersburg,  and  who  might  very 
likely  be  able  to  give  some  account  of  Zaluski : 

"  DEAR  LEONOFF  : — Some  very  queer  stories 
are  afloat  about  a  young  Polish  merchant,  by 
name  Sigisnmnd  Zaluski,  the  head  of  the  Lon- 
don branch  of  the  firm  of  Zaluski  &  Zernoff,  at 
St.  Petersburg.  Will  you  kindly  make  inquiries 
for  me  as  to  his  true  character  and  history  ?  I 
would  not  trouble  you  with  this  affair,  but  the 
fact  is  Zaluski  has  made  an  offer  of  marriage 
to  one  of  my  wards,  and  before  consenting  to 
any  betrothal  I  must  know  what  sort  of  man  he 
really  is.  I  take  it  for  granted  that  '  there  is 
no  smoke  without  fire,'  and  that  there  must  be 
something  in  the  very  strange  tale  which  I 
have  just  heard  on  the  best  authority.  It  is 
said  that  this  Sigismund  Zaluski  left  St.  Peters- 
burg in  March,  1881,  after  the  assassination  of 
the  late  czar,  in  which  he  was  seriously  com- 
promised. He  is  said  to  be  an  out-and-out  Ni- 
hilist, an  atheist,  and,  in  short,  a  dangerous, 
disreputable  fellow.  Will  you  sift  the  matter 
for  me  ?  I  don't  wish  to  dismiss  the  fellow 
without  good  reason,  but  of  course  I  could  not 


56    THE  AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  A  SLANDER. 

think  of  permitting1  him  to  be  engaged  to  my 
niece  until  these  charges  are  entirely  dis- 
proved. 

"  With  kind  remembrances  to  your  father, 
"  I  am  yours  faithfully, 

"  HENKY  CRICHTON-MORLEY." 


MY  SEVENTH  STAGE. 

Yet  on  the  dull  silence  breaking 

With  a  lightning  flash,  a  word, 
Bearing  endless  desolation 

On  its  blighting  wings,  I  heard  ; 
Earth  can  forge  no  keener  weapon, 

Dealing  surer  death  and  pain, 
And  the  cruel  echo  answered 

Through  long  years  again. 

— A.  A.  PROCTOB. 

CURIOUSLY  enough,  I  must  actually  have 
started  for  Kussia  on  the  same  day  that  Sigis- 
mund  Zaluski  was  summoned  by  his  uncle  at 
St.  Petersburg  to  return  on  a  matter  of  urgent 
business.  I  learned  afterward  that  the  tele- 
gram arrived  at  Muddleton  on  the  afternoon  of 
one  of  those  sunny  September  days,  and  found 
Zaluski  as  usual  at  the  Morleys'.  He  was  veiy 
much  annoyed  at  being  called  away  just  then, 


THE  AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  A  SLANDER.    57 

and  before  he  had  received  any  reply  from 
Gertrude's  uncle  as  to  the  engagement.  How- 
ever, after  a  little  ebullition  of  auger,  he  re- 
gained his  usual  philosophic  tone,  and,  re- 
minding Gertrude  that  he  need  not  be  away 
from  England  for  more  than  a  fortnight,  he 
took  leave  of  her  and  set  off  in  a  prompt,  manly 
fashion,  leaving  most  of  his  belongings  at  Ivy 
Cottage,  which  was  his  for  another  six  weeks, 
and  to  which  he  hoped  shortly  to  return. 

After  a  weary  time  of  imprisonment  in  my 
envelope,  I  at  length  reached  my  destination  at 
St.  Petersburg,  and  was  read  by  Dmitry  Leon- 
off.  He  was  a  very  busy  man,  and  by  the  same 
post  received  dozens  of  other  letters.  He 
merely  muttered :  "  That  well-known  firm  !  A 
most  unlikely  story  !  "  and  then  thrust  me  into 
a  drawer  with  other  letters  which  had  to  be 
answered.  Very  probably  I  escaped  his  mem- 
ory altogether  for  the  next  few  days  ;  however, 
there  I  was,  a  startling  accusation,  in  black  and 
white  ;  and,  as  everybody  knows,  St.  Peters- 
burg is  not  London. 

The  Leonoff  family  lived  on  the  third  story 
of  a  large  block  of  buildings  in  the  Sergeff- 
skaia.  About  two  o'clock  in  the  morning,  on 
the  third  day  after  my  arrival,  the  whole  house- 


58    THE  AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  A  SLANDER, 

hold  was  aroused  from  sleep  by  thundering 
raps  on  the  door,  and  the  dreaded  cry  of  "  Open 
to  the  police  !  " 

The  unlucky  master  was  forced  to  allow  him- 
self, his  wife,  and  his  children  to  be  made  pris- 
oners, while  every  corner  of  the  house  was 
searched,  every  book  and  paper  examined. 

Leonoff  had  nothing  whatever  to  do  with  the 
revolutionary  movement,  but  absolute  inno- 
cence does  not  free  people  from  the  police  in- 
quisition, and  five  or  six  years  ago,  when  the 
search  mania  was  at  its  height,  a  case  is  on 
record  of  a  poor  lady  whose  house  was  searched 
seven  times  within  twenty -four  hours,  though 
there  was  no  evidence  whatever  that  she  was 
connected  with  the  Nihilists  ;  the  whole  affair 
was,  in  fact,  a  misunderstanding,  as  she  was 
perfectly  innocent. 

This  search  in  Dmitry  Leonoff's  house  was 
also  a  misunderstanding,  and  in  the  dominions 
of  the  czar  misunderstandings  are  of  frequent 
occurrence. 

Leonoff  knew  himself  to  be  innocent,  and  he 
felt  no  fear,  though  considerable  annoyance, 
while  the  search  was  prosecuted;  he  could 
hardly  believe  the  evidence  of  his  senses  when, 
without  a  word  of  explanation,  he  was  informed 


THE  AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  A  SLANDER.    59 

tliat  lie  must  take  leave  of  his  wife  and  chil- 
dren, and  go  in  charge  of  the  gendarmes  to  the 
House  of  Preventive  Detention. 

Being  a  sensible  man,  he  kept  his  temper, 
remarked  courteously  that  some  mistake  must 
have  been  made,  embraced  his  weeping  wife, 
and  went  off  passively,  while  the  pristav  carried 
away  a  bundle  of  letters  in  which  I  occupied 
the  most  prominent  place. 

Leonoff  remained  a  prisoner  only  for  a  few 
days ;  there  was  not  a  shred  of  evidence  against 
him,  and,  having  suffered  terrible  anxiety,  he 
was  finally  released.  But  Mr.  Crichton-Mor- 
ley's  letter  was  never  restored  to  him,  it  re- 
mained in  the  hands  of  the  authorities,  and  the 
night  after  LeonofFs  arrest  the  pristav,  the 
procurator,  and  the  gendarmes  made  their 
way  into  the  dwelling  of  Sigismund  Zaluski's 
uncle,  where  a  similar  search  was  prosecuted. 

Sigismund  was  asleep  and  dreaming  of  Ger- 
trude and  of  his  idyllic  summer  in  England, 
when  his  bedroom  door  was  forced  open  and  he 
was  roughly  roused  by  the  gendarmes. 

His  first  feeling  was  one  of  amazement,  his 
second,  one  of  indignation ;  however,  he  was 
obliged  to  get  up  at  once  and  dress,  the  police- 
men rigorously  keeping  guard  over  him  the 


60    THE  AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  A  SLANDER. 

whole  time  for  fear  lie  should  destroy  any  trea- 
sonable document. 

"  How  I  shall  make  them  laugh  in  England 
when  I  tell  them  of  this  ridiculous  affair  !  "  re- 
flected Sigismund,  as  he  was  solemnly  marched 
into  the  adjoining  room,  where  he  found  his 
uncle  and  cousins,  each  guarded  by  a  police- 
man. 

He  made  some  jesting  remark,  but  was 
promptly  reprimanded  by  his  jailer,  and  in 
wearisome  silence  the  household  waited  while 
the  most  rigorous  search  of  the  premises  was 
made. 

Of  course  nothing  was  found;  but,  to  the 
amazement  of  all,  Sigismund  was  formally  ar- 
rested. 

"  There  must  be  some  mistake,"  he  exclaimed. 
"I  have  been  resident  in  England  for  some 
time.  I  have  no  connection  whatever  with 
Russian  politics." 

"  Oh,  we  are  well  aware  of  your  residence  in 
England,"  said  the  pristav.  "  You  left  St. 
Petersburg  early  in  March,  1881.  We  are  well 
aware  of  that." 

Something  in  the  man's  tone  made  Sigis- 
mund's  heart  stand  still.  Could  he  possibly 
be  suspected  of  complicity  in  the  plot  to  as- 


THE  AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  A   SLANDER.    61 

sassinate  the  late  czar  1  The  idea  would  have 
made  him.  laugh  had  he  been  in  England.  In 
St.  Petersburg,  and  under  these  circumstances, 
it  made  him  tremble. 

"There  is  some  terrible  mistake,"  he  said. 
"I  have  never  had  the  slightest  connection 
with  the  revolutionary  party." 

The  pristav  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and 
Sigismund,  feeling  like  one  in  a  dream,  took 
leave  of  his  relations,  and  was  escorted  at  once 
to  the  House  of  Preventive  Detention. 

Arrived  at  his  destination,  he  was  examined 
in  a  brief,  unsatisfactory  way;  but  when  he 
angrily  asked  for  the  evidence,  he  was  merely 
told  that  information  had  been  received  charg- 
ing him  with  being  concerned  in  the  assassina- 
tion of  the  late  emperor,  and  of  being  an  ad- 
vanced member  of  the  Nihilist  party.  His 
vehement  denials  were  received  with  scornful 
incredulity,  his  departure  for  England  just 
after  the  assassination,  and  his  prolonged  ab- 
sence from  Russia,  of  course  gave  color  to  the 
accusation,  and  he  was  ordered  off  to  his  cell 
"  to  reflect." 


62    THE  AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  A  SLANDER. 


MY  TRIUMPHANT  FINALE. 

"Words  are  mighty,  words  are  living ; 

Serpents  with  their  venomous  stings, 
Or  bright  angels  crowding  round  us, 

With  heaven's  light  upon  their  wings. 
Every  word  has  its  own  spirit, 

Time  or  false,  that  never  dies  ; 
Every  word  man's  lips  have  tittered, 

Echoes  in  God's  skies. 

— A.  A.  PROCTOR. 

MY  labors  were  now  nearly  at  an  end,  and 
being-,  so  to  speak,  off  duty,  I  could  occupy 
myself  just  as  I  pleased.  I  therefore  resolved 
to  keep  watch  over  Zaluski  in  his  prison. 

For  the  first  few  hours  after  his  arrest  lie 
was  in  a  violent  passion :  he  paced  up  and 
down  his  tiny  cell  like  a  lion  in  his  cage- :  ho 
was  beside  himself  with  indignation,  and  the 
blood  leaped  through  his  veins  like  wildfire. 

Then  he  became  a  little  ashamed  of  himself 
and  tried  to  grow  quiet,  and  after  a  sleepless 
night  he  passed  to  the  opposite  extreme  and 
sat  all  day  long  on  the  solitary  stool  in  his 
grim  abode,  his  head  resting  on  his  hands,  and 
his  mind  a  prey  to  the  most  fearful  melancholy. 


THE  AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  A  SLANDER.    63 

The  second  night,  however,  he  slept  and 
awoke  with  a  steady" resolve  in  his  mind. 

"  It  will  never  do  to  give  way  like  this,  or  I 
shall  be  in  a  brain  fever  in  no  time,"  he  re- 
flected. "I  will  get  leave  to  have  books  and 
writing  materials.  I  will  make  the  best  of  a 
bad  business." 

He  remembered  how  pleased  he  had  been 
when  Gertrude  had  once  smiled  on  him  be- 
cause, when  all  the  others  in  the  party  were 
grumbling  at  the  discomforts  of  a  certain  pic- 
nic where  the  provisions  had  gone  astray,  he 
had  gayly  made  the  best  of  it  and  ransacked 
the  nearest  cottages  for  bread  and  cheese.  He 
set  to  work  bravely  now;  hoped  daily  for  his 
release  ;  read  all  the  books  he  was  allowed  to 
receive,  invented  solitary  games,  began  a  novel, 
and  drew  caricatures. 

Tn  October  he  was  again  examined ;  but, 
having  nothing  to  reveal,  it  was  inevitable 
that  he  could  reveal  nothing ;  and  lie  \\  MS 
ag-ain  sent  back  to  his  cell  "  to  reflect." 

O 

I  perceived  that  after  this  his  heart  began 
to  fail  him. 

There  existed  in  the  House  of  Preventive  De- 
tention a  system  of  communication  between 
the  luckless  prisoners  carried  on  by  means  of 


64    THE  AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  A  SLANDER. 

tapping  on  the  wall.  Sigismund,  being  a 
clever  fellow,  had  become  a  great  adept  at  this 
telegraphic  system,  and  had  struck  up  ;i 
friendship  with  a  young  student  in  the  next 
cell.  This  poor  fellow  had  been  imprisoned 
three  years,  his  sole  offence  being  that  he  had 
in  his  possession  a  book  which  the  govern- 
ment did  not  approve,  and  that  he  was  first- 
cousin  to  a  well-known  Nihilist. 

The  two  became  as  devoted  to  each  other  as 
Silvio  Pellico  and  Count  Oroboni ;  but  it  soon 
became  evident  to  Valerian  Vasilowitch  that, 
unless  Zaluski  was  released,  he  would  soon 
succumb  to  the  terrible  restrictions  of  prison 
life. 

"  Keep  up  your  heart,  my  friend,"  he  used  to 
say.  "I  have  borne  it  three  years,  and  am 
still  alive  to  tell  the  tale." 

"But  you  are  stronger  both  in  mind  and 
body,"  said  Sigismund ;  "  and  you  are  not  mad- 
ly in  love  as  I  am." 

And  then  he  would  pour  forth  a  rhapsody 
about  Gertrude,  and  about  English  life,  and 
about  his  hopes  and  fears  for  the  future  ;  to  all 
of  which  Valerian,  like  the  brave  fellow  he 
was,  replied  with  words  of  encouragement. 

But  at  length  there   came  a  day  when  his 


THE  AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  A  SLANDER.    65 

friend  made  no  answer  to  his  usual  morning- 
greeting. 

"  Are  you  ill  ?  "  he  asked. 

For  some  time  there  was  no  reply,  but  after 
a  while  Sigisinund  rapped  faintly  the  despair- 
ing words : 

"  Dead  beat ! " 

Valerian  felt  the  tears  start  to  his  eyes.  It 
was  what  he  had  all  along  expected,  and  for  a 
time  grief  and  indignation  and  his  miserable 
helplessness  made  him  almost  beside  himself. 
At  last  he  remembered  that  there  was  at  least 
one  thing  in  his  power.  Each  day  he  was  es- 
corted by  a  warder  to  a  tiny  square,  walled  off 
in  the  exercising  ground,  and  was  allowed  to 
walk  for  a  few  minutes;  he  would  take  this 
opportunity  of  begging  the  warder  to  get  the 
doctor  for  his  friend. 

But  unfortunately  the  doctor  did  not  think 
very  seriously  of  Zaluski's  case.  In  that 
dreary  prison  he  had  patients  in  the  last 
stages  of  all  kinds  of  disease,  and  Sigismund, 
who  had  been  in  confinement  too  short  a  time 
to  look  as  ill  as  the  others,  did  not  receive 
much  attention.  Certainly,  the  doctor  ad- 
mitted, his  lungs  were  affected ;  probably  the 
sudden  change  of  climate  and  the  lack  of  good 


66    THE  AUTOBIOGRAPHY  Of  A  SLANDER. 

food  and  fresh  air  had  been  too  much  for  him  •, 
so  the  solemn  farce  ended,  and  he  was  left  to 
his  fate.  "  If  I  were  indeed  a  Nihilist,  and  suf- 
fered for  a  cause  which  I  had  at  heart,"  he 
telegraphed  to  Valerian,  "I  could  bear  it 
better.  But  to  be  kept  here  for  an  imaginary 
offence,  to  bear  cold  and  hunger  and  illness  all 
to  no  purpose — that  beats  me.  There  can't  be 
a  God,  or  such  things  would  not  be  allowed." 

"  To  me  it  seems,"  said  Valerian,  "  that  we 
are  the  victims  of  violated  law.  Others  have 
shown  tyranny,  or  injustice,  or  cruelty,  and  we 
are  the  victims  of  their  sin.  Don't  say  there  is 
no  God.  There  must  be  a  God  to  avenge  such 
hideous  wrong." 

So  they  spoke  to  each  other  through  their 
prison  wall  as  men  in  the  free  outer  world 
seldom  care  to  speak ;  and  I,  who  knew  no 
barriers,  looked  now  on  Valerian's  gaunt 
figure,  and  brave  but  prematurely  old  face, 
now  on  poor  Zaluski,  who,  in  his  weary  im- 
prisonment had  wasted  away  till  one  could 
scarcely  believe  that  he  was  indeed  the  same 
lithe,  active  fellow  who  had  played  tennis  at 
Mrs.  Courtenay's  garden  party. 

Day  and  night  Valerian  listened  to  the  terri- 
ble cough  which  came  from  the  adjoining  cell. 


THE  AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  A  SLANDER.    67 

It  became  perfectly  apparent  to  him  that  his 
friend  was  dying ;  he  knew  it  as  well  as  if  he 
had  seen  the  burning1  hectic  flush  on  his  hollow 
cheeks,  and  heard  the  panting,  hurried  breaths, 
and  watched  the  unnatural  brilliancy  of  his 
dark  eyes. 

At  length  he  thought  the  time  had  come  for 
another  sort  of  comfort. 

"  My  friend,"  he  said  one  day,  "  it  is  too 
plain  to  me  now  that  you  are  dying.  Write  to 
the  procurator  and  tell  him  so.  In  some  cases 
men  have  been  allowed  to  go  home  to  die." 

A  wild  hope  seized  on  poor  Sigismund ;  he 
sat  down  to  the  little  table  in  his  cell  and 
wrote  a  letter  to  the  procurator  —  a  letter 
which  might  almost  have  drawn  tears  from 
a  flint.  Again  and  again  he  passionately  as- 
serted his  innocence,  and  begged  to  know  on 
what  evidence  he  was  imprisoned.  He  began 
to  think  that  he  could  die  content  if  he  might 
leave  this  terrible  cell,  might  be  a  free  agent 
once  more,  if  only  for  a  few  days.  At  least  he 
might  in  that  case  clear  his  character,  and 
convince  Gertrude  that  his  imprisonment  had 
been  all  a  hideous  mistake ;  nay,  he  fancied 
that  he  might  live  through  a  journey  to  Eng- 
land and  see  her  oiice  again. 


68    THE  AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  A  SLANDER. 

But  the  procurator  would  not  let  him  be  set 
free,  and  refused  to  believe  that  his  case  was 
really  a  serious  one. 

Sigismund's  last  hope  left  him. 

The  days  and  weeks  dragged  slowly  on,  and 
when,  according  to  English  reckoning,  New- 
year's -eve  arrived,  he  could  scarcely  believe 
that  only  seventeen  weeks  ago  he  had  actually 
been  with  Gertrude,  and  that  disgrace  and 
imprisonment  had  seemed  things  that  could 
never  come  near  him,  and  death  had  been  a  far- 
away possibility,  and  life  had  been  full  of  bliss. 

As  I  watched  him  a  strong  desire  seized  me 
to  revisit  the  scenes  of  which  he  was  thinking, 
and  I  winged  my  way  back  to  England,  and 
soon  found  myself  in  the  drowsy,  respectable 
streets  of  Muddleton. 

It  was  New-year's-eve,  and  I  saw  Mrs. 
O'Reilly  preparing  presents  for  her  grand- 
children, and  talking,  as  she  tied  them  up,  of 
that  dreadful  Nihilist  who  had  deceived  them 
in  the  summer.  I  saw  Lena  Houghton,  and 
Mr.  Blackthorne,  and  Mrs.  Milton-Clcavo. 
kneeling  in  church  on  that  Friday  morning, 
praying  that  pity  might  be  shown  "  upon  all 
prisoners  and  captives,  and  all  that  are  deso- 
late or  oppressed." 


THE  AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  A  SLANDER.    69 

It  never  occurred  to  them  that  they  were 
responsible  for  the  sufferings  of  one  weary 
prisoner,  or  that  his  death  would  be  laid  at 
their  door. 

I  flew  to  Dulminster,  and  saw  Mrs.  Selldon 
kneeling  in  the  cathedral  at  the  late  evening 
service,  and  rigorously  examining  herself  as 
to  the  shortcomings  of  the  dying  year.  She 
confessed  many  things  in  a  vague,  untroubled 
way;  but  had  anyone  told  her  that  she  had 
cruelly  wronged  her  neighbor,  and  helped  to 
bring  an  innocent  man  to  shame,  and  prison, 
and  death,  she  would  not  have  believed  the 
accusation. 

I  sought  out  Mark  Shrewsbury.  He  was  at 
his  chambers  in  Pump  Court,  working  away 
with  his  type-writer  ;  he  had  a  fancy  for  work- 
ing the  old  year  out  and  the  new  year  in,  and 
now  he  was  in  the  full  swing  of  that  novel 
which  had  suggested  itself  to  his  mind  when 
Mrs.  Selldon  described  the  rich  and  mysterious 
foreigner  who  had  settled  down  at  Ivy  Cottage. 
Most  happily  he  labored  on,  never  dreaming 
that  his  careless  words  had  doomed  a  fellow- 
niau  to  a  painful  and  lingering  death;  never 
dreaming  that  while  his  fingers  flew  to  and  fro 
over  his  dainty  little  key-board,  describing  the 


70    THE  AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  A  SLANDER. 

clever  doings  of  the  unscrupulous  foreigner, 
another  man,  the  victim  of  his  idle  gossip, 
tapped  dying  messages  on  a  dreary  prison  wall. 

For  the  end  had  come. 

Through  the  evening  Sigismund  rested 
wearily  on  his  truckle-bed.  He  could  not  lie 
down  because  of  his  cough,  and,  since  there 
were  no  extra  pillows  to  prop  him  up,  he  had 
to  rest  his  head  and  shoulders  against  the  wall. 
There  was  a  gas-burner  in  the  tiny  cell,  and  by 
its  light  he  looked  round  the  bare  walls  of  his 
prison  with  a  blank,  hopeless,  yet  wistful  gaze ; 
there  was  the  stool,  there  was  the  table,  there 
were  the  clothes  he  should  never  wear  again, 
there  was  the  door  through  which  his  lifeless 
body  would  soon  be  earned.  He  looked  at 
everything  lingeringly,  for  he  knew  that  this 
desolate  prison  was  the  last  bit  of  the  world 
he  should  ever  see. 

Presently  the  gas  was  turned  out.  He 
sighed  as  he  felt  the  darkness  close  in  upon 
him,  for  he  knew  that  his  eyes  would  never 
again  see  light — knew  that  in  this  dark,  lonely 
cell  he  must  lie  and  wait  for  death.  And  he 
was  young  and  wished  to  live,  and  he  was  iu 
love  and  longed  most  terribly  for  the  presence 
of  the  woman  he  loved. 


THE  AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  A  SLANDER.    71 

The  awful  desolateness  of  the  cell  was  more 
than  he  could  endure ;  he  tried  to  think  of  his 
past  life,  he  tried  to  live  once  again  through 
those  happy  weeks  with  Gertrude  ;  but  always 
he  came  back  to  the  aching  misery  of  the  pros 
ent — the  cold  and  the  pain,  and  the  darkness 
and  the  terrible  solitude. 

His  nerveless  fingers  felt  their  way  to  the 
wall  and  faintly  rapped  a  summons. 

"  Valerian ! "  he  said,  "  I  shall  not  live 
through  the  night.  Watch  with  me." 

"  The  faint  raps  sounded  clearly  in  the  still- 
ness of  the  great  building,  and  Valerian 
dreaded  lest  the  warders  should  hear  them  and 
deal  out  punishment  for  an  offence  which  by 
day  they  were  forced  to  wink  at. 

But  he  would  not  for  the  world  have  deserted 
his  friend.  He  drew  his  stool  close  to  the  wall, 
wrapped  himself  round  in  all  the  clothes  he 
could  muster,  and,  shivering  with  cold,  kept 
watch  through  the  long  winter  night. 

"  I  am  near  you, "  he  telegraphed.  "  I  will 
watch  with  you  till  morning." 

From  time  to  time  Sigismund  rapped  faint 
messages,  and  Valerian  replied  with  comfort 
and  sympathy.  Once  he  thought  to  himself, 
"  My  friend  is  better ;  there  is  more  power  in 


72    THE  AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  A  SLANDER. 

his  hand."  And  indeed  he  trembled,  fearing 
that  the  sharp,  emphatic  raps  must  certainly 
attract  notice  and  put  an  end  to  their  com- 
munion. 

"  Tell  my  love  that  the  accusation  was  false — 
false ! "  the  word  was  vehemently  repeated. 
"  Tell  her  I  died  broken-hearted,  loving  her  to 
the  end." 

"  I  will  tell  her  all  when  I  am  free,"  said  poor 
Valerian,  wondering  with  a  sigh  when  this  un- 
just imprisonment  would  end.  "  Do  you  suffer 
much  ?  "  he  asked. 

There  was  a  brief  interval.  Sigismund  hesi- 
tated to  tell  a  falsehood  in  his  last  extremity. 

"  It  will  soon  be  over.  Do  not  be  troubled 
for  me,"  he  replied.  And  after  that  there  was 
a  long,  long  silence. 

Poor  fellow !  he  died  hard ;  and  I  wished  that 
those  comfortable  English  people  could  have 
been  dragged  from  their  warm  beds  and 
brought  into  the  cold,  dreary  cell  where  their 
victim  lay,  fighting  for  breath,  suffering  cruelly 
both  in  mind  and  body.  Valerian,  listening  in 
sad  suspense,  heard  one  more  faint  word  rapped 
by  the  dying  man  : 

"  Farewell ! " 

"  God  be  with  you ! "  he  replied,  unable  to 


THE  AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  A  SLANDER.    73 

check  the  tears  which  rained  down  as  he 
thought  of  the  life  so  sadly  ended,  and  of  his 
own  bereavement. 

He  heard  no  more.  Sigismund's  strength 
failed  him,  and  I,  to  whom  the  darkness  made 
no  difference,  watched  him  through  the  last 
dread  struggle  ;  there  was  no  one  to  raise  him, 
or  hold  him,  no  one  to  comfort  him.  Alone  in 
the  cold  and  darkness  of  that  first  morning  of 
the  year  1887,  he  died. 

Valerian  did  not  hear  through  the  wall  his 
last  faint,  gasping  cry,  but  I  heard  it,  and  its 
exceeding  bitterness  would  have  made  mortals 
weep. 

"  Gertrude  I  "  he  sobbed.     "  Gertrude  !  " 

And  with  that  his  head  sank  on  his  breast, 
and  the  life  which  but  for  me  might  have  been 
so  happy  and  prosperous,  was  ended. 


Prompted  by  curiosity,  I  instantly  returned 
to  Muddletou  and  sought  out  Gertrude  Morley. 
I  stole  into  her  room.  She  lay  asleep,  but  her 
dreams  were  troubled,  and  her  face,  once  so 
fresh  and  bright,  was  worn  with  pain  and 
anxiety. 

Scarcely  had  I  entered  the  room  when,  to  my 


74    THE  AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  A  SLANDER. 

amazement,  I  saw  the  spirit  of  Sigismund 
Zaluski. 

I  saw  him  bend  down  and  kiss  the  sleeping 
girl,  and  for  a  moment  her  sad  face  lighted  up 
with  a  radiant  smile. 

I  looked  again ;  he  was  gone.  Then  Ger- 
trude threw  up  both  her  arms  and,  with  a  bitter 
cry  awoke  from  her  dream. 

"  Sigismund  !  "  she  cried.  "  Oh,  Sigismund ! 
Now  I  know  that  you  are  dead  indeed  !  " 

For  a  long,  long  time  she  lay  in  a  sort  of 
trance  of  misery.  It  seemed  as  if  the  life  had 
been  almost  crushed  out  of  her,  and  it  was  not 
until  the  bells  began  to  ring  for  the  six  o'clock 
service,  merrily  pealing  out  their  welcome  of 
the  New-year  morning,  that  full  consciousness 
returned  to  her  again.  But,  as  she  clearly  real- 
ized what  had  happened,  she  broke  into  such  a 
passion  of  tears  as  I  had  never  before  wit- 
nessed, while  still  in  the  darkness  the  New- 
year  bells  rang  gayly,  and  she  knew  that  they 
heralded  for  her  the  beginning  of  a  lonely  life. 

And  so  my  work  ended;  my  part  in  this 
world  was  played  out.  Nevertheless,  I  still 
live ;  and  there  will  come  a  day  when  Sigis- 
mund and  Gertrude  shall  be  comforted  and  the 
slanderers  punished. 


THE  AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  A  SLANDER.    75 

For  poor  Valerian  was  right,  and  there  is  an 
Avenger,  in  whom  even  my  progenitor  be- 
lieves, and  before  whom  he  trembles. 

There  will  come  a  time  when  those  self- 
satisfied  ones,  whose  hands  are  all  the  time 
steeped  in  blood,  shall  be  confronted  with  me, 
and  shall  realize  to  the  full  all  that  their  idle 
words  have  brought  about. 

For  that  day  I  wait ;  and  though  afterward 
I  shall  be  finally  destroyed  in  the  general  de- 
struction of  all  that  is  unmitigatedly  evil,  I 
promise  myself  a  certain  satisfaction  and  pleas- 
ure (a  feeling  I  doubtless  inherit  from  my  pro- 
genitor), when  I  watch  the  shame,  and  horror, 
and  remorse  of  Mrs.  O'Reilly  and  the  rest  of 
the  people  to  whom  I  owe  my  existence  and 
rapid  growth. 


THE  END. 


IX  SOUTHERN  REGKMM.  UBRARY  FAOUTY 


A     000126892    9 


